GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS, 


EDITED     BY 

A.    J.    SANBORN.    A.    M 

PRINCIPAL   OF    MIDDLEBURY    HIGH    SCHOOL. 


CLAREMONT,  N.  H. 

CLAREMONT  MANUFACTURING    CO. 
1872. 


V 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

ALBERT  J.  SANBORN, 
in  the  office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


FROM    THE    BOOK-MAKING    ESTABLISHMENT 

OF    THE 

CLAREMONT    MANUFACTURING    CO., 
Claremont,  N.  H, 


PREFACE. 


THIS  volume  of  Poetry  is  presented  to  the  pub 
lic  in  response  to  the  urgent  request  of  many  of 
the  lovers  of  poetry,  and  that  the  poems  of  Ver 
mont  should  be  preserved  for  future  times. 

The  poems  have  not  been  arranged  with  regard 
to  merit,  but  as  they  were  copied  from  time  to 
time. 

"We  would  return  our  sincere  thanks  to  the  poets 
of  the  State  for  their  kind  assistance  in  collecting 
the  poems  for  this  volume. 

Middlebury,  Vt.  1872. 


M1A8369 


IISTDEX. 


PAGE. 

Vermont,  MRS.  A.  E.  STANLEY,       13 

The  Broken  Heart,       -  -             -             _             _           ««           16 

Autumn  Dirge,      -  -             _             _             _                  "18 

Bring  back  my  Baby,  -             _             _             _           «'           19 

Father  Time,        -  -             _             .             _                  "20 

The  Burial,  .                         -        F.  B.  GAGE,       22 

Resignation,           -  _            _            .            _                 "24 

Fallen,  _                                                             26 

Retribution,            -  _             .             _             _                 "27 

A  Grave,              0         _  _            _            _            -          "           27 

The  Noiseless  River,  -            ...                "28 

Which  is  the  Whichest?  -             .    .        -             -          "           31 

A  Babe's  Wisdom,  -                                                       "32 

Thereby  Hangs  a  Tale,  -                                                  «           33 

Memorial,  _            _            _            _                "34 

Idle  Words,                   -  .     •                    .            .                      36 

Vermont's  Welcome  to  Sheridan,  -            -                 «           37 

Lines  to  A.  M.  G.,  .                   E.  H.  PHELPS,       39 

Song,  ,«           41 

Zamia,                            _  _                        u           jo 

April  19,  1775  and  1861,  -                         -                "          48 

Hero  and  Leander,      -  MRS.  MARY  A.  PARKER,       53 . 

A  Wish,                   _  "58 

Sabbath  Evening,          -  _             _             _            -          "           59 

Little  Bell,              _  _            _            _            _                "60 

Heart  Disease,               -  _             _             _                        «           61 

The  Fall  of  the  Pemberton  Mill,     -  -       REV.  P.  B.  FISK,       63 

The  Camera,                  -  _             -             _                       ««           gg 


VI  INDEX. 

Lines  on  the  first  fall  of  Snow,  -        REV.  P.  B.  FISK,     71 

The  new  Year, 

Class  Ode,  " 

God  Sees,  74 

On  Little  Mt.  Waitsfield,  June,  1855,          -  "           74 

Ps.  23,  5;  Jer.  2,  13,    -  76 

Our  Warrior  Brothers,       -  76 

The  Lily  and  its  Shadow,  78 

Lines  to  a  Friend  in  Newburyport, 

The  Return,           -  MRS.  JULIA  HTJTCHINS,       81 

To  a  Butterfly  in  Church,        -  C.  R.  BALLARD,       88 

Strew  Flowers,        -  90 

Up  the  School  House  Hill,         -  91 

P.  H.  W.  93 

The  Pacific  Railway,     - 

Faded  Wild  Flower,  95 

Finances  of  1857,  96 

Over  the  Line,        -  97 

To  the  Ninth  Vermont  Regiment, 

Waiting5  -     Miss  M.  W.  RICE.     102 

Thoughts  of  a  Convalescent,     - 

The  Voyage  of  Life,  "         106 

A  Glorious  Victory,      -  "107 

To  think  of  Summers  yet  to  come  that  I  am  not  to  see,  "         109 

The  Awakening,  "         m 

Peletiah  Perkins,  Esq.,       -  "         H4 

Hallow  this  Grief, 

The  River,  117 

When  the  Ship  Comes  in,        -  -    A.  T.  GORHAM,     118 

The  Flag  of  America,  "         120 

Drifted  Away, 

I  would  I  were  a  Child  again,  -                                                    121 

Lost  Lulu, 

Girls  of  the  Green  Mountain  State,  "         124 

The  Rose's  Consolation,  I25 

Fairy  Lillie,  with  the  Bonnie  Brown  E'e,  -  127 

Joy  in  Sorrow,              -  Miss  SrsiE  A.  SILSBY,     128 

.Tephtha's  Vow,       -  -                                            "         i29 


INDEX. 


VII 


The  Story  of  Life, 

The  Gifts  of  the  Gods, 

The  Hunter  and  the  ]V 

"  Burning  of  the  Erie," 

To  Mount  Ascutney, 

The  Annunciation, 

Musings  at  the  clos 

A  Ballad  of  Judgn 

The  Four  Philosophers, 

The  Irish  Emigrants, 

My  Native  Valley, 

The  Red  Vapor, 

'T  is  Sweet  to  Sleep 

Vermont, 

Memory, 

The  Old  Clock, 

Evening  Musings, 

My  Mother, 

Wake  !  Sons  of  Ve 

Voices, 

The  Retrospect, 

Life  in  Death, 

Our  Flag, 

A  Call  to  Patriots, 

Our  Volunteers, 

God  has  a  Plan, 

Clinging  Closely  u 

Deception, 

Parody, 

Do  Right, 

Lines  for  an  Album, 

North  Wind,  Sun  ai 

A  Morning  Prayer, 

The  Model  and 

Will  it  Pay, 

Salutatory, 

Richmond  has  Fallen, 


uon  the  Waters,"          Miss  SUSIE  A.  SILSBY. 

136 

J.  G.  SAXE, 

144 

is, 

145 

3  Milkmaid,       - 

147 

!rie,"           -                                  S.  B.  COLBY, 

149 

,            -            -            -              A.  D.  SMITH, 

151 

Miss  C.  P.  JOSLYN, 

153 

of  a  year,         -                                            " 

154 

3nt  and  Mercy,                      WM.  C.  BRADLEY 

158 

,ers,       - 

160 

;s,                                          -   Miss  E.  ALLEN, 

161 

-                                      -  M.  CARTER, 

163 

F.  A.  GAGE, 

164 

P 

165 

-  D.  C.  STEWART, 

166 

-     Miss  F.  E.  SHEDD, 

168 

-     C.  H.  HAYNES, 

170 

u 

171 

« 

174 

mont  !   -                                                           " 

175 

Miss  J  R.  HASTINGS, 

176 

_                                                                 " 

182 

__---" 

186 

JUDAH  DANA. 

190 

__---" 

191 

« 

193 

_----" 

194 

ito  Thee                                                        " 

195 

(( 

196 

«.            _            -            -            -                '* 

197 

_                    (C 

198 

1, 

199 

md  Traveler, 

200 

*' 

201 

Statue, 

202 

MRS.  M.  A.  JENNEY, 

203 

<( 

206 

in. 

209 

VIII  INDEX. 

The  Windsor  Cent-hunters,  -                          -          G.  THAYER,  211 

Cloth,                                    -  "  214 

Sliding  Down  Hill,        -  -             _             _             _          "218 

Our  Wives,             -  «  222 

Success,  _            _            _          «  226 

The  Tobacco  Fiend,              -  ...                "227 

Geo.  P.  Hayes,  _            _                      «  228 

God,  «  229 

A  Winter's  Night,         --___«  230 

Departed,  Miss  L.  L,  FLETCHER,  231 

Lamoille,                       -  -            _            _                       «  232 

Why  do  they  come  to  us  in  Dreams  ?  -                 "  233 

The  Autumn  Rain,        -____«  234 

Boast  not  of  To-morrow,     -  -            A.  S.  NICHOLS  236 

Going  Home,  "  237 

The  Beautiful,        -  «  237 

The  Land  of  the  Gold,  -            -            _  238 

Retrospect,              -             -  .             _             _                 «  239 

I  'm  Seeking  a  Treasure,  -             _                        «  240 

Our  Country  in  1861,         -  *<  240 

The  Dying  Soldier,        -  _             _             _                        «  241 

My  Valley  Home,               -  _             _             _                 <«  242 

Song  of  the  Water  Drops,  -                        MRS.  C.  A.  O^DEN,  243 

The  Song  of  Night,  -                                            "245 

Lament  of  Copway,       -  «  246 

Earth  and  Heaven,  _             _             _                 «  248 

Repose  in  Christ,  -             _             _                       «  249 

To  the  Delaware  River,      -  _             _             _                 «  250 

Death  in  the  Wine  Cup  and  Bowl,        -  -      M.  MATTISON,  252 

Death  of  Col.  Martin  Scott,  -                                            <«  253 

A  Vermonter  in  Virginia,  -             -             _                       *«  253 

An  Ocean  Scene,  •  -  "  254 

Brass  Buttons,  -             _             _             _          «  255 

Voice  of  the  Prairie  Flowers,         -  -             -                 "  257 ' 

A  Lay  of  Memphremagog,  -             -       MRS.  L.  S.  GOODWIN,  258 

Factory  Song,         -             _  _             _            _                 «  262 

The  Way  of  the  New  World,  -             -            -            '_          "  263 

"The  Land  is  Sacred  which  we  Love,"      -      M.  R.  HURLBURT.  266 


INDEX.  IX 

Youth,  -  M.  R.  HURLBURT.     273 

The  Flag  of  '67,    -  "274 

The  Silver  Lake,  275 

On  the  Death  of  Gen.  Wordsworth,  "         276 

My  Alma  Mater,  "         277 

Follow  me,  -      D.  PIERCE     278 

A  Mother's  Dying  Words,         -  "281 

Lines,  "         282 

Lif6)  .  -  Miss  E.  FARRAND.     284 

Fate,  Law  and  God, 

Invocation  to  the  Spirit  of  Philosophy, 

The  Absent  Bridegroom,     - 

In  the  Net, 

On  the  Death  of  Cordie,      - 

By  the  Connecticut,  -        A.  A.  EARLE,     297 

Christmas  Hymn, 

Where  is  God  ?  30° 

Cold  Water,  -  Miss  C.  E.  RICHARDSON,     301 

The  White  Sail,  "         803 

Ran  Away,  307 

At  the  Dawning, 

Little  by  Little,       - 

Jennie  and  I,  A.  R.  SAVAGE,     312 

Toll,  Toll,  Toll  !       - 

Thoughts  on  Death, 

To  My  Mother,       -  MRS.  0.  E.  P.  THOMAS.     315 

Death  in  the  "  Golden  Land,"  "         318 

White  Roses,  "         321 

Freedom  for  Poland,     -  S.  B.  ROCKWELL,     323 

Compensation, 

The  Quaker  Volunteer,  327 

Apostrophe  to  Col.  E.  D  Baker,     - 

The  Reaper,  -  "332 

To  a  Tear, 

A  Letter,  -  MRS.  L.  M.  ROBBINS,     334 

A  Letter, 

To  "  Norah  North,"    -  -         ANONYMOUS,     341 

A  Letter  to  Ruth,  -  -  ME^.  L.  M.  ROBBINS,     342 


X  INDEX. 

Plymouth  Rock,  _        A.  J.  WING,  345 

Modern  Belles  and  Beaux,               -  "  347 

Advice  to  the  Wife,      --___«  349 

Advice  to  Husbands,           -             -  -             _                 «  351 

Invitation  of  Dartmouth  College,         -  -             .            ««  353 

Lines  oa  the  Death  of  Maj.  E.  Dillingham,  «•  354 

Changes,  MRS.  L.  A.  B.  BOYCE,  855 

The  Soldier's  Last  Dream,        --__««  357 

Class,  Ode,  M.  D.  BISBEE,  360 

Bells  from  over  the  Sea,            -             -  _                        "  351 

The  Dying  Sea  King,           -  "  362 

To  a  Christian,                                      _      Miss  G.  N.  FARRAND.  367 

The  Brook,              -                          _  <«  359 

Four  Leafed  Clover,                  -            -  _                       "  371 

Decoration  Day's  Echo,     -  C.  CARPENTER.  375 

Our  Voyage,  .         «  373 

Lines,  «  379 

The  Empty  Sleeve,                                    _  .                      «  380 

My    Christmas  (lift,             -  «  381 

A  Song  of  the  Sea,                                     -  MRS.  T.  E.  FISHER.  383 

The  Girls,  _     A.  MILLS,  385 

The  Slothful  Farmer,      -  «  386 

Found  Dead,  _              «  388 

Do  you  miss  me  ?                          -  ««  389 

The  Acorn,                 -             _             _  _            _              «  392 

Lines  on  ihe  Death  of  her  Child,  -         MRS  F.  L.  H.  DEARBORN,  395 

Music,                                                  _  .            _             "396 

Evening  Musings,             -  "  397 

To  the  Departed,        -            -            _  _            _             "  398 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  a  Child,      -             -  H.  C.  ORCUTT,  400 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  H.  B.  George,  -             -              ««  401 

God's  Patience,                  -             _             _  _                    «  402 

Lines  to  her  Daughter  before  Marriage,  MRS.  H.  M.  OBCUTT,  4f  3 

Peace,                         .            _            _  MRS.  M.  E.  ELRICH,  405  ' 

ToS.A.  W.,  .      «  406 

At  Home,                     -____«<  407 

What  Progress,                              _             _  _                    «  408 

Waiting,                                                   _.  .             _             «  409 

Valedictory,                     .            .            .  -    G.  H.  BLAKE,  410 


INDEX. 


XI 


The  auld  Scotch  Mither,  and  how  she 

Ida  Lenore, 

The  old  Man  and  the  Angel, 

The  Old  Home  Cottage,'      -    " 

The  Old  Dream, 

Fairy  Ray  of  Sunshine. 

The  Summer  Days  are  Coming, 

Rejoice,  the  Strife  is  Ended, 

The  School  Boy's  Song,  - 

The  Day  of  Jubilee, 

A  Dream, 

Lines  on  Thanksgiving  Day, 

The  Burial  at  Sea, 

Cherish  the  Living, 

A  Regret, 

Memories  of  a  Traveler,      - 

Autumn, 

Thoughts  Suggested  by  a  Little  Boy, 

Oh,  Let  us  be  up  and  Doing,    - 

Lines  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  Spaulding, 

A  Tragical  Tale, 

Nature's  Hour  of  Praise,     - 

My  Prayer, 

Thou  hast  Come  again,  0  Summer. 

Memory, 

Enduring  Records, 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  Lydia  Sanborn 

Hope, 

The  tfouth  Wind, 

The  Four  Views,     - 

Woman's  Rights, 

Night, 

For  an  Album, 

Standing  by   tho  Sea, 

Hope, 

Friendship, 

Well  Done  Vermont, 

Katie, 


welcomed  her  Malcolm, 

412 

G.  N.  BRIGHAM, 

421 

_             <c 

422 

_                                  k« 

424 

Miss  A.  BRYANT, 

427 

I.  W.  SANBORN, 

429 

" 

429 

tt 

430 

_                     1C 

431 

<c 

432 

MRS.  E.  POTTLE, 

433 

« 

435 

H.  M.  LADD, 

437 

Miss  A.  H.  CAPRON, 

443 

a 

444 

H.  M.  TENNEY, 

445 

-    MRS.  C.  E.  GREENSLIT, 

454 

<c 

455 

(« 

456 

_                                  " 

458 

-     R.  M.  BAILEY, 

459 

0.  S.  RICE, 

464 

c« 

466 

_                <( 

467 

-    Miss  J.  WELLS, 

468 

" 

469 

,  -            -      J.  J.  HAYNES, 

473 

-    Miss  M.  E.  WARD, 

474 

K 

475 

« 

477 

F.  C.  HATHAWAY, 

478 

-  H.  T.  PECK, 

479 

cc 

431 

CLARENCE  E.  BLAKE, 

432 

Miss  L.  E.  RICE, 

483 

N.  T.  CHURCHILL, 

485 

Miss  N.  J.  BRIGGS, 

486 

-      -      E.  R.  TOWLE, 

489 

XII 


INDEX. 


The  Old  iMan's  Plaint. 

Sunset, 

Our  Mother, 

Christmas  Song, 

To  an  Absent  Sister, 

Song  of  the  Wind, 

Departure  of  Winter, 

Little  Things, 

Love  of  Country, 

The  Prairie  Flower, 

Deserted, 

Our  May, 

A  Tribute  to  Nellie, 

Lines, 


E.  R.  TOWLE,     490 

-     Miss  M.  A.  MORRILL,     491 

493 

495 

Miss  A.  M.  NICHOLS,  496 

-  W.  H.  PETTES.  497 

499 

H.  L.  13.  MOON,  500 
501 
502 

Miss  I.  L.  SPRAGUE,  503 
506 

MRS.  0.  S.  SPRAGUE,  508 
509 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS 


MTC8.    A.    E.    STANLEY, 

OF    LEICEfcTKR. 

VERMONT. 

Vermont!    thou  fair  child  of  the  mountains, 
80  glorious,  so  grand  and  so  free  ; 

As  thy  evergreens  turn  to  the  sunlight, 
So  tnrneth  my  soul  unto  thee. 

()  !  seraphs,  from  Heaven's  blissful  chambers, 
Tune  thy  harps  with  music  most  sweet ; 

'Breathe  thy  melody  into  my  spirit, 
While,  in  rapture,  I  sit  at  thy  feet. 

O  !   muses,  come,  hover  around  me  ; 

Let  me  drink  from  thy  life-giving  font  ; 
Fill  my  soul  with  thy  grand  inspiration, 

While  I  sing  to  the  praise  of  Vermont. 

Thy  sons  are  the  stars  of  the  Union  — 
Thy  daughters  the  fairest  of  earth  ! 

And  we,  who  were  born  mid  thy  mountains. 
Do  not  care  for  a  nobler  birth. 

Progression  is  stamped  on  thy  forehead, 
Emblazoned  in  letters  of  gold  ; 

Thy  banner  floats  onward  and  upward, 
While  science  gleams  out  from  each  fold. 


14  '    GREEN  MOUNTAIN  TOETS. 

0 !  rare  are  thy  poets,  fair  sister, 
Who  bow  at  thy  beautiful  shrine  ; 

Who  will  sing  to  thy  praises  forever, 
In  anthems  and  songs  most  divine. 

How  gaze  I  with  rapture  upon  thee, 

When  the  morning  sun  heralds  the  day  ; 

Like  a  goddess  thou  sittest  in  splendor, 
Enwrapped  in  thy  silvery  spray. 

And  the  long>  slender  lines  of  the  sunbeams, 
Beglittering  with  light,  like  a  star, 

Steal  tremblingly  down  through  the  pearl-gate, 
Which  Night,  in  her  haste,  left  ajar. 

How  green  are  thy  hills  in  the  spring-time ; 

How  fragrant  each  moss-covered  mound, 
W^hen  the  angel  of  flowers  walks  among  them, 

Smiling  joy  'neath  her  floral-wreathed  crown. 

Thou  liftest  thy  noble  crest  heavenward, 

Above  the  fair  country  around ; 
Thy  mountains  reach  far  in  the  distance, 

And  lovingly  clasp  thee  around. 

They  tell  us  a  fair  land  awaits  us, 
If  we  follow  the  bright  setting  sun; 

Where  the  soil  yields  a  bountiful  harvest, 
And  wealth  fills  the  purse  of  each  one. 

But  I  care  not  for  physical  plenty, 

For  riches  were  never  my  goal ; 
Let  me  stay  with  my  own  dear  Vermont ! 

For  she  supplies  food  for  my  soul! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  15 

All  hail !  to  thee,  belle  of  the  Union  ! 

In  thy  soft  robe  of  bright  living  green ; 
Hail !  hail !  to  thee,  pet  of  New  England  ! 

We  bow  to  our  beautiful  queen. 

God  of  our  fathers,  I  thank  Thee, 

As  humbly  before  Thee  I  wait, 
That  my  eyes  first  unclosed  to  the  sunlight, 

In  this  beautiful  Green  Mountain  State. 

Vermont !  my  loved  country  forever, 

Wherever  my  lot  may  be  cast; 
And  when  my  soul  wings  her  way  upward, 

Take  my  form  to  thy  bosom,  at  last. 


"GET  OUT  OF  THE  SUNSHINE." 

Soul,  with  thy  superstitious  fear, 

Getting  no  light  from  year  to  year ; 

Making  no  progress  day  by  day ; 

Living  to  pass  the  time  away ; 

Closing  your  eyes  on  light  divine, 

And  then  complain  that  the  sun  don't  shine, 

If  you  will  not  behold  the  glorious  day, 

Get  out  of  the  sunshine,  that  others  may. 

For  the  sun  has  arisen  on  error's  night, 
Gilding  the  earth  with  her  radiant  light, 
Back  roll  the  clouds  from  Truth  away, 
And  we  see  her  crowned  with  the  light  of  day. 
Come  out  of  the  darkness,  and  into  the  light ! 
Do  n't  cover  your  head,  and  say  it  is  night ! 
If  you  will  not  behold  the  glorious  day, 
Get  out  of  the  sunshine,  that  others  may. 


16  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

In  this  grand  age  of  thought  and  commotion, 
Do  n't  ling  to  your  heart  some  musty  old  notion  ; 
Take  off  the  old  garment — put  on  the  new — 
Reach  ont  for  the  good,  the  pure,  and  the  true  ; 
Do  n't  sit  and  sing  that  old  song, 
"  Yes,  I  am  right,  and  others  are  wrong." 
If  yon  will  not  behold  the  glorious  day, 
Get  out  of  the  sunshine,  that  others  mav. 


THE  BROKEN  HEART. 

She  rose  from  her  couch  at  the  dead  of  the  night, 
And  crossed  the  dark  hall  in  her  night-robe  white. 

"Mother!  "  she  cried,  "whose  step  is  it  there, 
That  softly  I  hear,  on  the  old  oaken  stair  ? 

Has  Maland  come  back,  in  his  beauty  and  might, 
To  bring  me  a  lily,  and  kiss  me  good-night  ? 

I  dreamed  that  I  saw  him  rise  out  of  the  sea, 

And  he  whispered  '0,  Maude!'  and  beckoned  to  me  ; 

And  I  reached  out  my  hands,  but  they  grasped  the  thin  air- 
But  it  must  be  his  step  that  I  heard  on  the  stair." 

"  Xo,  child'!  't  is  the  sound  of  the  rain  over  head ! 
Go  back  and  lie  down  in  your  soft  downy  bed. 

Go,  darling,  and  rest,  now,  your  poor  weary  head, 
For  Maland,  your  lover,  is  dead !  is  dead  ! 

He  lies  'mong  the  corals,  beneath  the  dark  wave, 
And  the  sea-gulls  are  chanting  a  dirge  o'er  his  grave." 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  17 

"  Mother !  dear  mother !  0,  this  cannot  be  ! 
He  wrote  he  was  coming  from,  o'er  the  blue  sea. 

I  know  he  will  come;  for  I  saw  him  last  night, 
His  beautiful  face,  so  cold  and  so  white. 

To-morrow  night,  he  will  stand  by  my  side, 

And  he  '11  whisper  '  0,  Maude  !  my  beautiful  bride !' 

«*, 

Go,  mother!  and  bring  me  my  bridal-robe  white; 
I  must  dress  for  his  coming,  to-night,  to-night ! 

Bring  me  my  bridal-vail !  gossamer  cloud  ! 
0  !  take  it  away !  it 's  a  shroud  !  a  shroud/" 

The  star-crowned  angels  came  down  that  night, 
And  looked  upon  Maude,  in  her  robe  of  white. 

"  Poor  broken-hearted  !  "  they  mournfully  said, 
"  Thy  lover,  in  heaven,  with  thee  shall  wed." 

"  He  has  thrown  wide  open  the  golden  gate  ; 
And  he  whispers,  '  My  bride  !  no  longer  wait.'  " 

When  morn,  o'er  the  glad  earth,  her  rosy  light  spread, 
Sweet  Maude  of  the  sea-side  was  dead  !  was  dead ! 

And  angels  threw  open  the  golden  gate  wide, 
And  Maland  passed  through  with  his  spirit-bride. 


18  GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

AUTUMN  DIKGE. 

Gently,  sweetly  she  is  dying, 

Withered  flowers  are  on  her  breast; 

Mourning  winds  are  sobbing,  sighing, 
While  she  sinks  to  dreamless  rest. 

Lovely  Autumn ! 
Slumber  sweet,  and  take  thy  rest. 

One  by  one  the  leaves  are  falling, 
Falling  'round  thy  lonely  grave; 

Where  the  birds  their  mates  are  calling, 
Where  the  leafless  branches  wave. 

Silent  Autumn ! 
Winds  are  whisp'ring  'round  thy  grave. 

Sparkling  rills  that  laughed  in  Summer, 
Sing  no  more  the  flowers  among; 

Thy  sweet  name,  in  solemn  murmur, 
Ever  mingles  in  their  song. 

Slumbering  Autumn ! 
Mournful  is  thy  funeral  song. 

Quivering  sunbeams  coldly  beaming, 

Tremble  o'er  thy  silent  bed ; 
Thou  in  sleep  that  knows  no  dreaming; 

Take  thy  rest,  O  lovely  dead  ! 
Glorious  Autumn  ! 

Hallowed  be  thy  lowly  bed. 

On  the  cloud-capt  mountains  hoary, 

Wood-nymphs,  white,  their  banners  wave; 
Soon  they  '11  come  in  all  their  glory, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  19 

Scattering  snow-flakes  on  thy  grave ; 

Softly  singing 
Dirges  solemn  'round  thy  grave. 

0  !  may  I,  when  Death  is  calling, 

Sink  as  calmly  to  my  rest; 
Withering  leaves  around  me  falling, 

Withering  flowers  upon  my  breast ; 
Like  the  Autumn, 

May  I  sink  to  peaceful  rest. 


BRING  BACK  MY  BABY. 

They  took  him  away  from  my  bosom, 

My  precious,  my  beautiful  boy ; 
Do  they  know  that  my  poor  heart  is  breaking, 

While  others  are  throbbing  with  joy  ? 
My  arms  are  so  idle  and  empty, 

I  'm  watching  the  long,  weary  day ; 
0  !    pity  a  heart-broken  mother, 

And  bring  back  my  baby,  I  pray. 

They  robed  the  fair  form  of  my  darling 

In  garments  so  thin  and  so  cold, 
And  they  scattered  white  lilies  and  rose-buds 

Along  in  each  soft,  snowy  fold. 
He  looked  like  a  little  frost  spirit, 

So  still,  and  so  cold,  and  so  white ; 
And  they  took  up  my  beautiful  baby, 

And  carried  him  out  of  my  sight. 


20  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

They  made  a  low  bed  'neath  the  grasses, 

Too 'narrow,  too  dark,  and  too  deep, 
For  a  birdling  so  frail  and  so  tender, 

And  I  can't  have  him  laid  there  to  sleep; 
For  I  know  when  he  wakes,  he  '11  be  calling, 

And  reaching  his  arms  out  to  come, 
We  '11  leave  the  door  open  till  morning,  love, 

Some  angel  may  bring  Herbert  home. 

0,  dry  your  tears  sorrowing  mother, 

Nor  mourn  for  your  darling,  I  pray, 
For  "  of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven," 

And  Herbert  is  happy  to-day  : 
There,  there  by  that  beautiful  "River," 

Whose  waves  have  a  musical  flow, 
The  angels  stood  beck'ning  so  sweetly, 

I  knew  you  would  let  Herbert  go. 


FATHER  TIME. 

Don't  go  so  fast !  Father  Time  ; 
'Twas  only  a  few  days  ago, 

That  my  eye  it  was  bright, 

And  my  step  it  was  light, 
And  I  thought  that  you  traveled  too  slow. 

But  you  hurried  me  on,  Father  Time, 
While  wearisome  burdens  I  bore ; 

The  sunlight,  I  find, 

Is  all  left  behind, 
And  the  shadows  are  creeping  before. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  21 

You  have  stolen  my  youth,  Father  Time ; 
You  have  taken  my  roses  away, 

And  my  soft,  silken  hair, 

Which  once  was  so  fair, 
You  are  dotting  it  over  with  gray. 

I  was  happy  and  gay,  Father  Time, 

And  I  thought  that  you  traveled  so  slow; 
This  bright  little  earth, 
Was  all  music  and  mirth, 
And  my  sky  was  all  rainbows,  you  know. 

But  that  "scythe"  in  your  hand,  Father  Time, 
Is  so  savage  and  sharp,  I  am  told ; 
By  the  powers  above  ! 
Is  there  one  that  can  love 
A  foe  so  relentless  and  bold  ? 

For  your  mission  on  earth,  Father  Time, 
Is  to  bring  ev'ry  thing  to  decay ; 
You  bring  blight  and  mold, 
You  make  us  grow  old, 
And  you  rule  us  with  absolute  sway. 

The  summit  is  gained,  Father  Time, 
And  I  'm  viewing  the  valleys  below; 

One  side  are  "  sweet  dreams," 

The  other  dark  streams, 
That  murmur  with  sad,  tearful  flow. 

Now  what  is  there  left,  Father  Time  ? 
Ah !  what  but  the  sweet  star  of  hope, 
To  illumine  our  way, 


22  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

As  we  glide,  day  by  day, 
Along  down  the  dim  western  slope. 

"  0,  cease  your  repining,  my  child, 
My  mission  to  you  is  for  good ; 
By  angels  of  light, 
I'm  employed  day  and  night, 
To  draw  your  heart  nearer  to  God. 

"When  that  glorious  eternal,  my  child, 
Shall  dawn  on  your  wondering  view, 

And  angels  shall  come, 

To  welcome  you  home, 
Then  my  mission  is  ended  with  you. 

"And  from  your  serene  height,  my  child, 
You  will  look  with  ineffable  love; 
And  in  Heaven's  sweet  name, 
You  will  bless  Father  Time, 
For  his  labors  of  mercy  and  love." 


F.    B.   GAGE, 

AN   EMINENT  ARTIST  OF   ST.  JOHNSBURT. 

THE  BUKIAL. 

'T  is  a  burial — not  a  bridal, 

To  the  grave  we  bear  our  idol ! — 

She,  our  only  earthly  treasure, 
Dear  to  us  beyond  all  measure — 

She,  who  came,  but  now,  to  falter 
Holy  vows  at  Hymen's  altar, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  23 

Lies  in  bridal  robes  enshrouded, 

Her  brow  with  death's  dampness  clouded. 

Ye  who — summoned  to  her  bridal — 
Wail  above  your  stricken  idol; 

Ye  whose  love  grew  daily  fonder, 
Lift  the  coffin's  lid  and  ponder. 

O'er  that  face  hath  crept  the  stillness, 
Of  death's  stern  and  icy  dullness, 

And  no  animation  lingers 

In  those  folded  marble  fingers. 

Ah,  we  marvel  at  the  myst'ry 

Of  life's  strangely  transient  hist'ry ; 

And  we  ponder,  little  knowing 
Of  life's  coming  and  its  going ; 

Little  reading,  little  seeing, 
The  great  purpose  of  our  being ; 

Wondering  that  the  wise  Creator 
Hath  not  made  our  knowledge  greater ; 

We,  who  through  our  sinful  being, 
Lack  the  holy  faith  for  seeing 

Beyond  th'  agony  of  dying — 
The  glory  of  existence  lying ; 

Harb'ring  still  misapprehension 
Of  God's  kind  and  dear  intention. 


24  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

This  life  is  the  life  Ideal, 
Her's  is  changed  into  the  Real ; 

Changed  from  earthly  sin  and  sorrow 
Into  one  unclouded  morrow. 

'Midst  these  many  tears  up-starting, 
Close  the  lid  for  the  brief  parting : 

These  dear  features  wear  the  seeming 
Of  the  pleasantness  of  dreaming. 

She  is  only  softly  sleeping; 
Leave  her  in  God's  tender  keeping. 

He  will  treasure  our  lost  idol, 
'Tis  our  Burial,— but  her  Bridal. 


KESIGNATION. 

Death  rides  alike  the  breeze  and  blast, 
And  thence  his  cruel  shafts  are  cast ; 

The  same  in  Summer's  genial  glow, 
The  same  in  Winter's  ice  and  snow. 

To-day  into  our  home  he  pressed, 
No  welcome  nor  expected  guest. 

One  full  of  promise,  bloom  and  joy, 
The  fair-haired,  blue-eyed,  laughing  boy, 

Shall  never,  at  the  cottage  door, 
At  twilight,  bound  to  meet  us  more ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  25 

And  we  bewail  the  cruel  fate 
That  leaves  our  household  desolate. 

We  wonder  at  the  providence 

That  at  this  hour  hath  borne  him  hence  ; 

We  murmur  that  the  cruel  dart 
Thus  early  touched  his  tender  heart, 

And  weep,  in  unavailing  grief, 
A  life  so  bright,  and  yet  so  brief. 

Could  we  into  the  future  look, 
And  read  it  as  an  open  book, 

We  might  turn  back  in  fear  and  dread, 
And  thankfulness  that  he  is  dead. 

We  might  in  its  dread  pages  read 
An  end  more  terrible  indeed  ; 

And  thus  be  comforted  that  he, 
Thus  early  ransomed  and  set  free, 

Hath  well  escaped  the  paths  that  lead 
Where  vice,  and  shame,  and  mis'ry  breed ; 

And  all  the  ills  that  crowd  the  train, 
Of  sickness,  poverty  and  pain. 

Then  might  we  bless  the  stroke  of  fate 
That  leaves  our  household  desolate. 

Then  might  we  stand  in  wonder  dumb 
At  visioned  glories  yet  to  come. 


26  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Be  still,  0  murm'ring  heart,  and  trust 
That  all  God's  purposes  are  just — 

That  whatsoe'er  may  yet  arise, 
His  dealings  all  are  just  and  wise; 

Xor  deem  it  still  a  cruel  fate 
That  leaves  our  household  desolate. 


FALLEN. 

At  this  bedside  standing  sadly, 
Gaze  on  her  who  perished  madly  ! 

Judge  her  not  whose  heart  was  broken 
By  the  vows  of  falsehood  spoken. 

She  is  Death's  !  since  he  hath  won  her, 
There's  no  stain  of  sin  upon  her. 

She  that  loved,  and  he  that  lusted, 
Know  that  man  may  not  be  trusted. 

Purest  souls  are  always  frailest ; 
So  with  hers,  whom  thou  bewailest. 

God  is  just,  and  judgment  certain — 
Turn  and  softly  drop  the  curtain. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  TOETS.  '         27 


RETRIBUTION. 

One  there  was  who  loved  and  trusted  ; 
One  there  was  who  lied  and  lusted; 

Love  and  trust,  alas  !  were  stronger ; 
Sinless  was  her  soul  no  longer. 

Grief  and  shame  reigned  for  a  season, 
Tottered  then  the  throne  of  reason. 

Darkly  flowed  the  turbid  water — 
There  they  found  the  ruined  daughter. 

She 's  at  rest,  where  peace  and  pity 
Guard  the  gates  of  the  Great  City. 

He  shall  hear  a  maniac's  laughter, 
Through  all  the  years  that  come  hereafter. 

Every  hour  of  night  shall  bring  it, 
Every  wind  shall  raise  and  ring  it. 

Her  dead  face  a  ghastly  vision, 
Drowns  his  ravings  of  derision. 

And  a  phantom  nought  can  sever 
Follows  all  his  steps  forever. 


28  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


A  GKAVE. 
\ 

A  grave  for  you  and  a  grave  for  me 

Was  laid  ere  the  hour  that  we  were  born, 
And  travel  the  earth,  or  sail  the  sea, 
There  only  our  resting  place  shall  be, 
Till  the  resurrection  morn. 

For  He  who  spun  eternity's  span, 

And  spoke  the  word,  and  the  world  was  born, 
Hath  perfect  order  in  all  His  plan ; 
He  watches  and  tends  the  steps  of  man, 
Till  the  resurrection  morn. 

There's  a  grave  for  one,  and  a  grave  for  all 
Alike,  on  the  face  of  the  earth  prepared ; 
For  the  love  that  lets  not  the  sparrow  fall, 
And  the  order  that  sways  and  governs  all, 
Alike  by  all  is  shared. 

Yet  why  should  we  turn  away  and  weep, 

Or  over  the  thought  in  terror  brood  ? 
Though  death,  ere  long,  shall  over  us  creep, 
Though  the  grave  is  dark,  and  cold,  and  deep, 
Yet  God  is  wise  and  good. 

So  travel  we  far,  or  travel  free, 

Or  come  to  our  deaths,  nor  matters  it  how, 
Upon  the  land,  or  within  the  sea, 
There's  a  grave  for  you,  a  grave  for  me, 
Made  ready  and  waiting  now. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  29 

THE  NOISELESS  RIVER. 

There  is  a  river  beneath  the  ground, 
A  river  that  flows  without  a  sound ; 

Over  the  river  an  arch  is  spread, 
And  millions  upon  its  surface  tread. 

That  arch  is  woven  of  human  sin, 
Alas  !  how  rotten,  and  frail,  and  thin  ; 

And  nothing  they  see,  nothing  they  know, 
Of  the  awful  stream  that  rolls  below. 

Nay,  but  they  glory  to  think  they  stand 
So  over  the  solid  rock  and  land. 

Ah !  the  rock  and  land  do  not  exist, 
The  rock  's  a  phantom,  the  land  a  mist ! 

But  the  river  is  real  that  rolls  below, 
It  swallows  all  that  over  it  go. 

A  fearful  frenzy  upon  them  lies, 

And  a  strange  delusion  blinds  their  eyes. 

Ah,  look  and  see  !  how  quicker  than  tho't, 
One — one  of  that  mighty  crowd  is  not ! 

Right  into  the  solid  earth  he  fell, 
Giving  out  only  a  single  yell ; 

And  over  the  place  a  vapor  dropped, 
And  quick  as  a  flash  the  rent  was  stopped ; 


30  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  those  around  heard  not  a  sound, 

Nor  knew  that  one  dropped  into  the  ground. 

Not  into  the  ground,  but  into  the  river ; 
That  rolls  beneath,  for  ever  and  ever. 

Ah,  was  it  not  strange  that  none  could  hear 
That  terrible  yell  that  smote  my  ear, 

When  one  of  their  dancing  comrades  fell 
Down  into  a  murky,  reeking  hell  ? 

Ah,  see,  another  has  gone  from  sight 
Down  into  the  rolling,  endless  night  ! 

Another,  and  yet  another,  ah  me ! 
How  fast  they  fall,  and  how  fearfully  ! 

And  yet  the  whirl  of  the  dance  goes  on, 
The  many  miss  not  the  few  that  're  gone, 

Nor  dream  they  dance  on  a  bridge  of  sin, 
So  fearfully  frail,  and  weak,  and  thin. 

Oh,  turn  and  hearken,  nor  ever  go 
To  join  in  that  terrible  dance  of  woe ; 

Lest  in  the  midst  of  that  wild  career 
Your  terrible  shriek  should  reach  my  ear ! 

Oh,  ponder  and  stand  in  terror  dumb, 
And  dash  from  your  lips  the  wine  and  rum. 

On  the  bridge  of  indulgence  never  go, 
For  the  river  of  ruin  rolls  below. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  31 

WHICH  IS  THE  WHICHEST? 

Which  is  the  wliichest  ?  they  said  to  me, 

Which  is  the  whichest  ?  I  replied  : 
A  home-bred  maiden  we  love  to  see, 

Or  a  modern  school-girl  for  a  bride  ? 
Which  is  the  whichest  ? 

Which  is  the  whichest  ?  they  said  to  me, 

Which  is  the  wliichest  ?  I  replied  : 
A  tidy  housewife  to  make  my  tea, 

Or  a  wasteful  Bridget  to  preside  ? 
Which  is  the  whichest  ? 

Which  is  the  whichest  ?  they  said  to  me, 

Which  is  the  whichest  ?  I  replied  : 
A  piano  drumming  eternally, 

Or  a  sweet  wife  knitting  by  my  side  ? 
Which  is  the  whichest  ? 

Which  is  the  whichest  ?  they  said  to  me, 

Which  is  the  whichest  ?  I  replied  : 
A  wife  that  will  go  to  a  ball  or  spree, 

And  leave  the  baby  and  me  beside  ? 
Which  is  the  whichest  ? 

Away  with  your  pomp  and  senseless  pride, 

Such  riches  are  never  the  richest ! 
But  my  little  cot,  and  my  loving  bride, 

These  are  the  which  is  the  whichest ! 
Which  is  the  whichest  ? 


32  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

A  BABE'S  WISDOM. 

A  little  boy,  not  three  years  old, 
Upon  the  floor  in  frolic  rolled  ; 

And  then  the  little  roguish  chap, 
Climbed  up  into  his  mother's  lap, 

And  laid  his  head  upon  her  breast, 
Because  he  loved  to  be  caressed. 

A  thought  was  in  his  little  head — 
And  with  a  wondering  look  he  said  : 

"  Who  made  me,  mamma  ?"  and  his  eye 
Was  fixed  on  her  for  a  reply. 

"  God  made  you  out  of  dust,  my  boy, 
To  fill  your  mother's  heart  with  joy." 

While  closer  pressed  his  little  head — 

"  Where  does  God  live,  mamma  ?"  he  said. 

"  God  lives  up  where  the  moon  and  star 
Shine  in  the  sky,  so  very  far." 

"  But  how  does  God  get  down  from  there  ?" 
He  said,  with  still  a  wondering  air. 

God  always  stays  up  there,  my  dear, 
And  God  will  never  come  down  here. 

The  child  looked  down  upon  the  floor, 
But  thought  was  busy  as  before. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  33 

And  when  he  raised  his  eyes  again, 
Still  greater  wonder  filled  his  brain  : 

"  Well,  if  God  live's  up  in  the  star, 
Where  does  He  get  the  dust,  mamma  ?" 


THEREBY  HANGS  A  TALE. 

We  roamed  the  woods  together, 
When  flowers  bedecked  the  vale  ; 

'Twas  in  the  bright  May  weather, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Our  words  were  fond  and  tender, 
But  love  could  not  prevail ; 

Her  pride  would  fain  surrender, 
But  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Our  love  was  fresh  and  sunny  ; 

But  all  of  no  avail — 
For  old  John  Dean  had  money, 

And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

But  wealth  is  oft  unstable, 

And  pride's  schemes  often  fail  ; 

John  Dean's  wealth  proved  a  fable, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Remorse  stung  like  a  viper, 

And  want  made  red  cheeks  pale  ; 

The  seeds  of  death  grew  riper, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 


34  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  turf  is  freshly  broken, 

And  dead  leaves  load  the  gale; 

I  pluck  a  withered  token, 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale. 

Ah  !    maiden,  fair  and  sunny, 
Let  honest  love  prevail ; 

Oh,  never  wed  for  money, 
Lest  thereby  hang  a  tale. 


MEMORIAL. 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF  THE  DEDICATION  OF  THE  SOLDIERS'  MONUMENT 
AT  ST.  JOHNSBURT,  AUG.  20, 1868. 


Raise  the  shaft  of  solid  granite, 
Crown  it  with  the  marble  pure ; 

There  inscribe  their  names  who  perished 
That  our  Freedom  might  endure. 

They  who  saw  the  nation's  danger, 
And  went  forth  to  dare  and  die ; 

They  whose  graves,  unknown  and  nameless, 
Scattered  through  the  nation  lie ; 

They  who,  on  red  fields  of  slaughter, 
Perished  ere  the  strife  was  done ; 

They  whose  deeds  of  might  and  valor. 
Freedom  for  the  world  hath  won : 

All  our  glorious  fallen  heroes 
Let  the  fadeless  granite  tell ; — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  35 

All  who  perished  in  foul  prisons. 
Or  in  bloody  battle  fell. 

Not  in  vain  was  all  their  valor — 

Not  in  vain  they  gave  their  lives ; 
For  our  millions  wear  no  shackles, 

And  the  nation  still  survives. 

Still  survives,  through  blood  and  carnage, 

By  their  deeds  of  valor  borne  : 
Every  star  is  on  our  banner — 

Not  a  stripe  is  rent  or  torn. 

They  who,  when  the  great  Avenger 

Rained  disasters  from  the  skies, 
For  our  erring  land's  salvation 

Gave  themselves  a  sacrifice — 

They  have  brought  God's  suffering  millions 

Safe  to  Freedom's  temple  door — 
Every  home  may  have  its  Bille 

And  its  Altar,  ever  more. 

Ever  more,  as  future  ages 

Measure  God's  eternal  years, 
Man  shall  reap  the  many  blessings 

Of  their  valor,  blood  and  tears. 

And  enduring,  as  those  blessings, 

Shall  their  holy  mem'ry  be ; 
Reaching  from  the  ice-capped  mountains, 

To  the  ever-rolling  sea. 


36  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

IDLE  WORDS. 

Give  me  your  miniature,  I  said, 

That  I  may  keep  it  when  you  're  dead. 

These  idle  words  I  dropped  in  jest, 
One  evening  to  a  merry  guest ; 

And  she  — the  rosy  village  belle— - 
Laughed  at  the  jest,  and  thought  it  well. 

She  gave  the  boon,  and  playful  said  : 
"  Mayhap  to-morrow  I  'II  be  dead." 

Again  we  laughed  like  merry  birds, 
And  soon  forgot  our  idle  words. 

Not  idle  words  ! — before  the  morn 
Among  the  distant  hills  was  born, 

We  looked  upon  her  pallid  face 
Where  death  had  left  his  fatal  trace — 

And  we — who  laughed  an  hour  before — 
Now  wailed  with  sorrow,  deep  and  sore. 

Could  we  have  seen  the  grave  and  bier, 
At  that  dread  hour  so  very  near, 

We  ne'er  had  laughed  like  merry  birds, 
Nor  trifled  with  such  awful  words. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  37 

VERMONT'S  WELCOME  TO  SHERIDAN. 

Phil  Sheridan  \ 

We  welcome  thee  to  old  Vermont, 
The  State  where  treason  is  not  wont 
To  mar  the  face  of  beast  or  man, 
We  welcome  thee,  Phil  Sheridan, 
Phil  Sheridan. 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

Our  welcome  is  not  all  for  thee — 
'Tis  for  what  thou  hast  dared  to  be  ; 
It  is  that  thou  hast  dared  to  spurn, 
And  on  the  nation's  viper  turn, 
Phil  Sheridan. 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

The  uncorrupted  Head*  and  Heartf 
Shall  yet  rend  Treason's  fangs  apart, 
E'en  though  it  come  in  the  dread  shape 
Of  steel,  and  canister,  and  grape, 
Phil  Sheridan. 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

Repentance  is  not  fully  wrought ; 
Not  all  our  battles  have  been  fought, 
For  Justice  stands  aloof  and  weeps, 
And  still  the  garnered  vengeance  sleeps. 
Phil  Sheridan. 

Phil  Sheridan ! 

Out  from  this  ominous  fearful  calm, 

*  The  people.  f  Congress. 


38  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Shall  Retribution  stretch  his  arm, 
And  from  his  never-sparing  hand 
Rain  desolation  on  the  land, 
Phil  Sheridan  ? 

Phil  Sheridan ! 

If  it  shall  come  again  to  blows, 
Wo  be  it  then  to  Freedom's  foes, 
For  you  again  shall  on  them  wreak 
Your  Winchester  and  Cedar  Creek, 
Phil  Sheridan. 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

Should  the  Old  Flag  e'er  trail  again, 
And  Treason's  armies  crowd  the  plain, 
Their  hosts  shall  still  have  cause  to  dread 
The  brave  Vermonters  by  you  led, 
Phil  Sheridan ! 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

Whoe'er  of  thee  shall  lightly  speak, 
We  '11  hurl  at  him  your  Cedar  Creek, 
And  if  he  still  attempt  to  slur, 
We  '11  crush  him  with  your  Winchester, 
Phil  Sheridan. 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

Oh,  never-fearing,  glorious  Phil, 
Upholder  of  the  People's  Will, 
Whenever  treason's  watchlire  burns, 
To  such  as  thee  the  nation  turns, 
Phil  Sheridan. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  39 

Phil  Sheridan  ! 

We  gladly,  gaily  welcome  thee, 
Fit  champion  of  the  brave  and  free, 
The  bravest  in  the  van  of  right, 
The  bravest  of  the  brave  in  fight, 
Phil  Sheridan. 


E.    H.    PHELPS, 

OF   FAIRHAVEN. 

LINES. 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED  TO  A.  M.  G. 

Dear  G ,  't  was  hard, 

When  I  first  got  your  card, 
To  realize  wholly  the  truth, 

That  you  'd  taken  a  wife, 

And  commenced  a  new  life, 
Being  reckoned  no  longer  a  "  youth." 

But  it  must  be  confessed, 

That  your  course  is  the  best 
That  a  mortal  can  possibly  choose ; 

For  a  wife,  I  've  been  told, 

Is  worth  far  more  than  gold, 
To  keep  house,  and  to  keep  off  the  blues. 

And  the  Bible  has  said, 
That  a  mortal  should  wed, 
That  man  should  not  travel  alone ; 


40  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  should  get  him  a  rib, 
Just  as  old  Adam  did, 
And  guard  her,  as  bone  of  his  bone. 

And  there  's  one  other  verse, 

Which  I  need  not  rehearse — 
For  I  'm  certain  you  '11  heed  the  command — 

Where  it  plainly  declares, 

That  the  chief  of  your  cares 
Is,  to  help  to  replenish  the  land. 

That  you  've  made  such  a  choice, 

I  cannot  but  rejoice — 
That  she  's  perfect  I  know  to  be  true — 

For  a  knowledge  of  maids 

Is  the  nicest  of  trades, 
And  I  credit  that  knowledge  to  you, 

Well,  G ,  dear  boy, 

I  hope  that  much  joy 
May  visit  your  spouse  and  yourself; 

May  your  sorrows  all  cease,     . 

And  your  pleasures  increase, 
Till,  prepared,  you  are  laid  on.  the  shelf. 

May  the  angel  of  love 

Leave  the  regions  above, 
And  brighten  your  life  to  its  end ; 

But  while  others  more  dear 

Come  to  gladden  you  here, 
Do  n't  forget  your  lone 

BACHELOR  FRIEND. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  41 


SONG 

ADDRESSED  TO  THE  UNION  GUARDS  OF  THE  IST  VERMONT  REGIMENT. 
AIR.—"  Scots  wha  ha'  wi'  Wallace  bled," 

Hail !  ye  valiant  sons  of  Mars, 
Gone  to  fight  our  righteous  wars, 
Gone  to  guard  the  Stripes  and  Stars, 

With  your  latest  breath  ; 
Gone  to  face  a  rebel  host, 
Gone  to  save  a  Union  lost, 
Gone  to  gua/rd,  it,  though  it  cost 

Untold  pain  and  death. 

At  the  rumor  of  alarms, 

Ye  were  first  to  shoulder  arms, 

First  to-  leave  your  shops  and  farms 

For  the  battle-field ; 
And  your  words  you  need  not  plight, 
That  ye  will  be  first  to  fight 
For  the  triumph  of  the  right, 

Never  once  to  yield. 

Keep  our  glorious  flag  on  high, 
Proudly  floating  'gainst  the  sky, 
Swear  to  guard  its  folds  or  die 
In  the  holy  cause  ; 


42  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  can  death  more  noble  be 
Than  when  fighting  for  the  free, 
In  defending  liberty 

And  our  sacred  laws  ? 

Show  them  that  the  fame  ye  won 
With  the  sword  and  with  the  gun, 
At  Old  Ti  and  Bennington, 

Was  not  Southern  brag ; 
Let  the  hireling  rebels  feel 
Yankee  lead  and  Yankee  steel, 
Till  the  trait'rous  knaves  shall  kneel 

To  the  starry  Flag. 

Still  preserve  that  blood-bought  fame, 
Which  Vermonters  justly  claim ; 
Be  in  truth,  as  well  as  name, 

Valiant  Union  Guards ! 
Then,  though  numbered  with  the  slain, 
Ye  will  not  have  lived  in  vain, 
And  in  dying  ye  shall  gain 

Glorious  rewards. 

With  such  sons  we  have  no  fears  ; 
Then  let's  raise  three  hearty  cheers 
For  our  Union  Volunteers — 

For  our  gallant  boys ; 
Here  is  trusting  that  ye  '11  come, 
With  a  glorious  vict'ry  won, 
Each  to  his  Green  Mountain  hpme, 

Long  to  share  its  joys. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  43 


ZAMIA. 


Said  to  have  been  one  of  the  Ionian  Isles,  and  completely  destroyed  by  an 
earthquake,  with  all  its  inhabitants. 


The  morning  dawned  on  Zamia,  but  no  sound 
Cut  the  still  air,  or  trembled  o'er  the  ground; 
Up  from  the  sea  the  bloody  sun  arose, 
Like  a  red  shield,  the  harbinger  of  woes ; 
It  tipped  the  towers  of  Zamia  with  its  rays, 
And  conscious  ocean  reddened  'neath  its  gaze. 
All,  all  was  silent,  and  no  gentle  breeze 
Stirred  the  bright  leaflets  of  the  forest-trees; 
The  orange  blossom  and  the  olive  fair 
Sent  forth  no  grateful  odor  on  the  air ; 
Not  e'en  the  wavelet  kissed  the  verdant  shore ; 
Such  silence  reigned  as  ne^er  had  reigned  before  : 
The  air,  the  earth  and  ocean  held  their  breath, 
And  all  was  silent  as  the  land  of  Death. 
But  soon,  from  many  a  home  among  the  hills, 
By  bounteous  vineyards,  and  by  crystal  rills, 
From  many  a  cot  concealed  by  flower  and  vine, 
From  many  a  cave  of  nature's  wild  design, 
From  lordly  castle  and  from  kingly  hall, 
Poured  forth  the  anxious  inmates,  one  and  all, 
And,  in  one  great,  mysterious,  silent  throng, 
A  mighty  host  moved  noiselessly  along. 
All  sought  th'  Acropolis,  where  in  grandeur  stood 


44  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  tower  of  Zeus,  their  great  and  only  god. 

There  gathered  many  men  of  hardy  frame, 

The  happy  peasant  and  his  goodly  dame, 

The  prattling  infant  and  the  aged  brave, 

Tot'ring  at  last  above  the  welcome  grave, 

And  youths  and  maidens,  many  a  noble  pair, 

In  one  vast,  anxious  throng  were  gathered  there ; 

For  't  was  the  Festival,  that  solemn  day, 

When  all  to  Zeus  their  rites  and  vows  must  pay. 

At  length  a  shout  rolls  o'er  the  living  tide, 

And  then  the  mass  sways  back  on  either  side ; 

Forth  from  the  temple,  and  with  pompous  show, 

Came  priest  and  priestess,  solemnly  and  slow, 

And  close  behind,  with  firm  and  steady  tread, 

With  look  from  which  all  fear  of  death  has  fled, 

With  hope  and  faith  reflected  from  the  eye, 

The  Christian  martyrs  now  come  forth  to  die — 

The  one  an  aged  man  with  hoary  hair, 

His  form  bowed  down  'neath  years  of  pain  and  care, 

His  eye,  deep-sunken  'neath  a  furrowed  brow, 

Beams  with  a  luster  mpre  than  earthly  now. 

The  other  is  a  maiden,  pure  and  bright 

As  heaven's  own  jewels  in  the  crown  of  night, 

Fairer  by  far  than  Zamia's  daughters  are, 

Her  home  far  distant  toward  the  evening  star. 

Father  and  daughter  in  a  foreign  clime. 

The  love  of  heaven  their  great  and  only  crime, 

Must  pour  their  heart's  blood  on  this  foreign  sod, 

To  cool  the  anger  of  a  heathen  god. 

The  hour  of  blood  has  come,  and  now  the  cry 

Of  blood  goes  upward  tow'rd  the  angry  sky. 

The  aged  man  is  laid  upon  the  pile, 


GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  45 

He  cries  not,  shrieks  not,  but  a  holy  smile 

Plays  'round  his  mouth,  and  shows  no  lingering  trace 

Of  fear,  or  sorrow,  on  that  old  man's  face ; 

His  head  is  bent  back,  and  his  throat  laid  bare, 

And  then,  one  moment  gleaming  in  the  air, 

The  murderer's  knife,  bathed  to  the  hilt  in  blood, 

Pours  o'er  the  altar's  stones  a  crimson  flood ; 

Then  comes  the  horrid  agony,  the  fearful  strife 

Between  Death's  angel  and  his  ebbing  life ; 

Struggling,  convulsed,  he  stands  erect  once  more, 

His  gray  hair  matted  with  the  crimson  gore ; 

His  eye  glares  wildly,  and  his  bony  hands 

Reach  high  aloft,  as  if  toward  other  lands  ; 

The  quiv'ring  lip,  the  hoarse  and  gurgling  sound, 

Tell  that  the  old  man's  prayer,  or  curse,  is  drowned ; 

A  heavy  fall  tells  that  the  spirit 's  fled ; 

The  victim  lies  upon  the  altar,  dead  ! 

The  deed  is  done,  and  thousands  gathered  there, 
With  shouts  of  triumph  cleave  the  sultry  air. 
But  hark !  a  wilder  sound  breaks  on  the  ear, 
And  priest  and  peasant  shake  with  guilty  fear; 
Up  from  the  sea  there  comes  a  murmuring  sound, 
Which  in  its  horror  shakes  the  very  ground; 
The  heavens  grow  black,  and  all,  above,  below, 
Is  black  with  darkness  as  the  realms  of  woe : 
Louder,  more  deafening  grows  that  dreadful  roar, 
Each  shock  more  awful  than  the  one  before, 
Around  the  isle  the  roar  of  rushing'waves — 
Across  the  isle  the  whirlwind  shrieks  and  raves, 
A  suffocating  sense  pervades  the  air, 
As  if  the  fiends  of  hell  were  breathing  there. 


46  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  see  !  the  lightning  with  its  lurid  ray 
Turns  for  a  moment  darkness  into  day, 
And  then  a  cry  bursts  forth  :  "  The  sea !  the  sea  ! 
The  Earth  is  sinking  !  whither  shall  we  flee  !" 
Toward  the  tower  the  reeling  wretches  crawl, 
'Mid  crashing  timbers  and  'mid  heaving  wall ; 
Unconscious  of  their  near  approaching  fate, 
Some  groping  wildly,  seek  the  city's  gate  ; 
A  few  rush  gasping,  and  with  hurried  breath, 
As  if  to  flee  the  jaws  of  hungry  Death — 
Fainting  and  falt'ring  in  the  heaving  street, 
Hundreds  are  crushed  beneath  the  flying  feet. 
And  now  this  wild  distraction  knows  no  bounds, 
With  sinful  feet  they  press  the  sacred  grounds, 
They  reach  the  temple,  and  the  priesthood's  law 
No  longer  fills  their  hearts  with  holy  awe ; 
No  longer  is  their  heathen  god  revered  ; 
No  longer  are  his  laws  and  edicts  feared. 
Within  they  rush,  and  through  the  sacred  door, 
Where  none  but  holy  feet  have  trod  before. 
Within  these  walls  high-raised  above  the  sea, 
The  wretches  hope  to  baffle  Heaven's  decree : 
But  even  now  they  hear  the  rushing  tide, 
Seething  and  boiling,  dash  on  every  side  ; 
They  hear  the  whirlwind  as  in  demon  tones 
It  strives  to  drown  the  wail  of  dying  groans, 
They  hear  the  earthquake  as  its  mighty  shock 
Makes  wall  and  pillar  of  the  temple  rock. 
Higher,  still  higher,  comes  the  angry  wave, 
Engulfing  thousands  in  a  watery  grave  ! 
But  now  beyond  the  sea  fair  hope  has  fled, 
And  dread  despair  is  perched  o'er  every  head, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  47 

Insanity  usurps  proud  reason's  throne, 
And  madness,  like  a  giant,  stalks  alone . 
They  list  no  longer  to  the  swelling  flood, 
But  demon-like,  each  madman  howls  for  blood  ! 
And  now  the  work  of  murder  has  begun  ! 
With  fiendish  oaths  the  father  kills  the  son  ! 
Man  against  man,  until  the  temple's  floor 
Grows  red  and  slippery  with  human  gore. 
And  now  the  sea  has  risen  till  it  laves 
The  sacred  portal  with  its  eddying  waves  ; 
The  first  mad  circle,  in  its  whirling  sweep, 
Bears  forth  a  hundred  to  the  mighty  deep, 
Yet  still  the  temple  stands,  gloomy  and  proud, 
Its  gray  walls  covered  with  a  sable  shroud  ; 
Sublime  it  stands — ay,  even  as  the  storm 
That  shrieks  and  surges  round  its  ancient  form ; 
Across  its  sculptured  dome,  now  wet  with  spray, 
The  vivid  lightnings  for  a  moment  play, 
And  then  a  wave  far  higher  than  before, 
A  shriek,  a  crash,  and  Zamia  is  no  more  ! 

The  morning  dawned,  and  with  its  mellow  light 
Dispelled  the  darkness  of  that  dreadful  night  ; 
In  Heaven's  high  arch  no  shadow  now  remains, 
No  stormy  cloud  its  pure  ethereal  stains  ; 
The  sun-light  fell  among  Ionia's  isles, 
And  wave  and  woodland  gladdened  'neath  its  smiles; 
But  Zamia's  valleys  and  her  vine-clad  hills, 
Her  waving  harvests  and  her  laughing  rills, 
Warmed  not  beneath  Aurora's  love-lit  eye, 
Nor  saw  the  beauty  of  that  glorious  sky ; 
For  God,  who  holds  the  waters  in  his  hands, 
Had  sunk  in  ocean's  depths  that  sinful  land. 


48  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

APRIL  19,  1775,  AND  1861. 

In  that  year,  ever  hallowed  in  story 
As  the  dawn  of  our  national  glory, 

The  19th  of  April  broke  mellow  and  clear ; 
Not  a  cloud  dimmed  the  brightness  of  morning, 
Or  gave  the  good  countrymen  warning 

That  aught  of  destruction  or  danger  was  near. 

But  a  light  from  the  old  North-church  steeple 
Had  carried  the  news  to  the  people, 

That  the  red-coats  were  marching  toward  Concord  town, 
And  a  herald,  by  desperate  riding, 
Had  published  the  evil  betiding 

At  each  hamlet  and  farm-house  the  country  around. 

As  the  news  flew  from  village  to  village, 
And  visions  of  slaughter  and  pillage 

Arose  at  the  sound  of  that  ominous  word ; 
The  arm  of  each  yeoman  grew  stronger, 
And  his  breathing  grew  deeper  and  longer, 

As  he  took  down  his  musket  and  grasped  his  good  sword. 

Then  partings  were  hatsily  uttered, 
And  curses  on  tyrants  were  muttered, 

Deep  curses  of  vengeance,  that  came  from  the  heart, 
On  the  army  of  British  aggressors, 
Sent  over  by  royal  oppressors 

To  force  them  from  God-given  freedom  to  part. 

O'er  the  fields  where  the  moonlight  was  lying 
Dark  forms  were  seen  silently  flying, 

Meeting  close  by  the  church  on  the  old  village  green ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  49 

There  quickly  they  gather  to  meet  them, 
With  powder  and  bullets  to  greet  them, 

Wherever  the  red-coats  advancing  were  seen. 

Soon  the  regulars  came,  full  eight  hundred, 
And  volleys  of  musketry  thundered 

To  force  the  militia  to  beat  a  retreat; 
But  still  they  kept  steadily  firing, 
Though  their  comrades  in  arms  were  expiring, 

And  the  shot  flew  around  them  like  wind-driven  sleet. 

'Twas  then  that  the  ruthless  assaulter 
First  crimsoned  our  Liberty's  altar 

With  the  blood  of  the  bravest  and  best  of  the  race ; 
And  he  wrote  on  our  history's  pages 
A  tale  which,  through  unnumbered  ages, 

No  foe  can  blot  out  and  no  traitor  efface. 

For  he  learned  that  the  God  of  creation 
Had  put  in  the  hearts  of  the  nation 

A  will  unsubdued,  while  the  body  has  breath, 
Which  from  freedom  no  tyrant  can  sever, 
Which  will  fight  for  it  ever  and  ever, 

Unconquered  by  none,  save  the  conqueror,  Death. 

Just  eighty-six  years  have  been  numbered, 
While  Lexington's  Martyrs  have  slumbered, 

And  the  nation  in  wealth  and  in  power  has  progressed 
With  such  rapid  and  wonderful  motion, 
That  it  stretches  from  ocean  to  ocean — 

From  the  Gulf  to  the  lakes,  from  the  East  to  the  West. 

Its  banner,  by  freemen  protected, 
Throughout  all  the  earth  is  respected, 


50  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

In  the  councils  of  Kings,  upon  land  and  on  sea ; 
For  it  floats  o'er  a  people  united, 
Whose  honor  in  blood  has  been  plighted 

To  guard  and  defend  it,  the  flag  of  the  free. 

But,  while  Freedom's  sons  have  been  sleeping, 
Disease  o'er  the  land  has  been  creeping, 

Vile  treason  has  tainted  the  heart  of  the  state, 
And  men  high-exalted  in  station 
Have  labored  to  ruin  our  nation, 

Urged  on  by  the  friends  of  ambition  and  hate. 

The  holiest  bonds  have  been  sundered, 
The  wealth  of  the  nation  been  plundered, 

Our  vessels  been  captured,  our  flag  been  defiled, 
Our  citizens  hung  for  no  reason, 
Except  for  not  joining  in  treason, 

Our  freedom  been  scoffed  at,  and  justice  reviled. 

Again  April  19th  is  beaming, 

And  the  nation,  aroused  from  its  dreaming, 

Has  sent  forth  its  armies  to  crush  from  the  land 
All  such  as  would  rob  and  betray  us, 
By  such  as  still  swear  to  obey  us, 

Determined  and  willing  forever  to  stand. 

Through  Baltimore,  peaceful  and  quiet, 
Suspecting  no  hindrance  or  riot, 

The  troops  of  the  Bay  State,  a  patriot  race, 
The  sons  of  those  veteran  yeomen, 
Who  at  Lexington  routed  the  foemen, 

Are  marching  to  rescue  our  land  from  disgrace. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  51 

When  suddenly  rising  around  them, 
Assassins  and  traitors  surround  them, 

Each  corner,  and  alley,  and  wall  hides  a  foe, 
And  in  baseness  surpassing  a  demon, 
Each  shouts  for  the  blood  of  a  free-man, 

With  bludgeons  and  brick-bats  directing  the  blow. 

That  morning  a  coward  and  traitor, 
Blighted  image  of  God,  the  Creator, 

Spilled  the  blood  of  a  brother  on  Maryland's  soil ; 
And  a  mob  of  infuriate  rebels, 
Less  like  men  than  like  incarnate  devils, 

Made  the  blood  in  the  hearts  of  all  freemen  to  boil. 

Arise,  then,  and  arm  for  the  battle  ! 
Or  wait  to  be  driven,  like  cattle, 

To  give  up  your  freedom,  your  rights,  and  your  all ; 
Give  the  rebels  your  aid  and  protection, 
By  bowing  in  meekest  subjection; 

Or  go  forth  to  meet  them  with  powder  and  ball ! 

Shall  this  Union  unto  us  presented — 
By  the  blood  of  our  fathers  cemented — 

Be  broken  in  fragments  by  traitors  and  knaves  ? 
Shall  the  land  which  is  ever  victorious, 
Whose  name  and  whose  fame  is  all  glorious, 

Give  this  heritage  up,  while  our  bright  banner  waves  ? 

Shall  that  flag  under  which  we  have  plighted, 
To  live  or  to  perish  united, 

Be  stolen  by  traitors  and  trampled  in  dust  ? 
Will  a  freeman  and  patriot  brother 
Give  up  half  our  land  to  another, 

While  the  sword  in  its  scabbard  is  gathering  rust  ? 


52  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Shall  that  hand  never  earn  retribution, 
Which  would  tear  up  the  old  Constitution, 

On  which  this  our  national  fabric  is  based  ? 
That  bond  which  no  tyrant  can  sever, 
And  which  none  but  a  coward  would  ever 

See  polluted  by  treacherous  hands  and  disgraced  ? 

Shall  the  soil  where  our  Washington  slumbers, 
Whose  name  is  too  pure  for  these  numbers, 

Be  calmly  surrendered  to  tyrants  and  knaves  ? 
Shall  we  promise  we  will  not  molest  them, 
Or  put  forth  an  arm  to  arrest  them, 

And  send  their  foul  bodies  to  dishonored  graves  ? 

Shall  we  wait  for  one  moment,  in  raising 
An  arm,  when  all  nations  are  gazing — 

From  the  East  and  the  West,  and  the  isles  of  the  sea — 
At  this  land  so  enveloped  in  glory, 
Renowned  both  in  song  and  in  story 

As  liberty's  birth-place,  the  land  of  the  free  ? 

Ah,  no,  for  the  war-cry  has  sounded ; 
On  justice  our  cause  is  deep-founded  ; 

With  God  on  our  side  we  have  nothing  to  fear : 
In  no  holier  cause  can  poor  mortals 
Seek  entrance  to  heavenly  portals, 

Than  in  fighting  for  all  that  immortals  hold  dear ! 

Ay,  a  nobler  career  is  before  us, 

When  our  armies  to  peace  shall  restore  us, 

And  bring  back  the  honor  which  miscreants  stole ; 
When  purged  of  all  tyrants  and  traitors, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  53 

New  glories  shall  surely  await  us, 

A  nation  of  freemen,  united  and  whole. 

Then  our  flag,  humbled  but  for  a  season, 
Shall  float,  in  defiance  of  treason, 

In  the  kingdom  of  cotton,  in  South  as  in  North ; 
And  our  country,  in  truth  a  free  nation, 
Shall  still  keep  its  just  reputation 

As  the  noblest  and  best  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
August,  1861. 


MRS.    MARY  A.    PARKER, 

OF   BETHEL— FORMERLY   MISS  MARY  A.   HUNTON  OF   HYDE   PARK. 

HERO  AND  LEANDER. 

(A  Classical  Travestie  in  imitation  of  Saxe.) 

In  the  very  old  time 

Of  classical  rhyme, 

There  stood  on  the  shore  of  a  distant  sea, 
In  as  pleasant  a  spot  as  you  'd  wish  to  be — 
On  the  western  shore,  a  templed  shrine 
Erected  to  Venus,  that  beauty  divine, 
Whose  genuine  business  is  looking  over 
The  " affaire  de  cceur"  of  each  earthly  lover, 

And  keeping  a  sly 

But  curious  eye 

On  all  such  things  as  any- way  tend 
To  bring  these  "  affairs"  out  right  in  the  end. 
She  is  also  known  as  the  mother  of  Cupid, 
A  blind  little  boy,  intensely  stupid, 
Who  makes  it  a  point  to  pierce  with  a  dart, 


54  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Every  mortal  so  foolish  as  to  harbor  a  heart. 
Within  this  same  temple  a  priestess  dwelt, 

Hero  by  name — 

At  least  so  says  fame — 
And  just  imagine  how  she  must  have  felt, 
All  living  alone  in  those  holy  halls — 
And  especially  so  when  I  let  you  in 
To  one  little  rule,  /  consider  a  sin — 

It  refers  to  beaux, 

And  goodness  knows 

That  did  one  propose 
To  enter  the  shade  of  those  sacred  walls, 
On  matrimonial  thoughts  intent, 

His  days  upon  earth 

Were  really  not  worth, 
In  mercantile  phrase,  a  single  red  cent. 

Now  this  little  rule,  as  I  said  before, 
I  should  consider  a  regular  bore ; 
In  short,  nothing  less  than  a  burning  shame, 
And  it  seems  that  the  priestess  thought  the  same ; 
For  one  pleasant  day 

There  chanced  to  wander 
Along  that  way, 

A  youth  named  Leander, 

And  I  give  you  my  word, 
That  just  how  it  occurred 
I  cannot  take  on  myself  to  say, 

For  these  ancient  writers  by  no  means  let  out 

Exactly  how  the  affair  came  about; 
But  though  shut  up  tight, 
She  by  some  means  got  sight 


GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  55 

Of  this  charming  yovmg  bean, 

And  he  of  her,  which 's  enough  to  know, 

To  be  assured  that- those,  little  dears, 

Fell  straightway  in  love — over  head  and  ears. 

But  alas  for  the  joys  of  this  mundane  state  ! 

Leander  lived  over  beyond  the  strait, 

And  across  the  water  there  was  n't  a  bridge, 

Nor  yet  so  much  as  a  single  ridge 

On  which  to  wade,  in  his  heaven-ward  journey, 

Or  a  boat  to  be  hired  for  love  or  money ; 

So  how  in  the  world  was  he  to  get  over, 

Or  the  lady  to  see  her  ardent  young  lover, 

With  obstructions  like  these  it  seems  a  great  wonder, 

How  charming  Miss  Hero  and  gallant  Leander, 

Could  manage  to  do  such  an  immense  amount 

Of  business  divine 

In  the  wooing  line, 
As  they  certainly  did,  by  every  account. 

But  it 's  the  poorest  of  jokes, 

If  two  young  folks, 
Being  fully  bent  on  seeing  each  other, 
Cannot  do  it  without  any  very  great  bother. 

Now  these  of  old  story  were  of  the  right  kind, 
Being  valiant  of  heart,  and  determined  of  mind, 

And  so  they  agreed 

That  every  night, 

The  lady  should  speed 

To  the  tower  with  a  light, 

Which  as  soon  as  he  spied 

On  the  other  side, 
He  should  plunge  at  once  into  the  foaming  tide, 


56  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  swimming  over,  should  spend  the  hours, 

In  what  they  considered  Elysian  bowers  ; 

(A  belief,  by  the  way,  we  all  know  to  be  "gammon," 

The  true  bower  Elysian  being  the  temple  of  mammon 

For  in  this  golden  age  we  every  day  prove , 

How  very  superior  is  money  to  love.) 

And  just  at  the  early  breaking  of  morn, 

When  no  one  was  nigh, 

His  course  to  spy, 

Back  he  would  swim  through  the  Hellespont  ; 
For  you  will  allow  that,  "to  acknowledge  the  corn," 

Would  be  quite  unpleasant, 

At  least  for  the  present, 
Especially  as  his  life  depended  upon  't. 

Well,  matters  progressed  for  quite  a  long  time 

In  a  lovely  way  most  charming  to  see, 
And  the  happy  young  lovers  both  voted  it  "  prime," 
That  affairs  should  go  on  so  swimmingly, 

As  night  after  night, 

With  his  eye  on  the  light, 
Leander  passed  over  the  waters  blue, 

And  he  and  his  sweet 

Spent  the  moments  fleet, 
In  such  happy  communings  as  lovers  all  do. 

But  it  happened  one  night  in  stormy  December, 

(My  date  is  from  Byron,  I  hope  you'll  remember,) 
When  the  clouds  were  black,  and  the  wind"  was  high, 
And  the  rain  and  the  storm  were  not  all  "  in  your  eye," 

This  daring  young  lover, 

In  a  tremble  all  over, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  57 

When  his  pa  and  his  ma  were  safe  in  bed, 

Stole  out  of  the  house, 

As  still  as  a  mouse, 
So  as  not  to  wake  the  maternal  head ; 

For  this  naughty  boy, 

His  mother's  joy, 

Took  particular  pains  when  he  went  on  a  scout, 
Not  to  let  her  know  that  her  darling  was  out. 

The  water  was  cold, 

But  his  heart  was  bold, 
For  he  saw  on  the  tower  the  beacon  light, 
So  in  he  plunged  with  all  his  might ; 

The  billow  was  rough,  and  in  that  same  minute, 
When  we  might  truly  say  lie  had  put  his  foot  in  it, 
There  came  a  great  gust  which  blew  out  the  light, 
And  left  him  enveloped  in  tempest  and  night. 
But  I  think  he  'd  have  lived  in  spite  of  the  lamp, 
If  he  had  not  been  seized  by  an  unlucky  cramp, 
But  in  less  than  two  minutes  after  he  felt 
Its  grasp  on  his  leg,  he  was  dead  as  a  smelt. 
The  morning  succeeding,  at  a  quite  early  hour, 
His  body  was  washed  to  the  foot  of  the  tower, 
Which  Hero  espying,  her  grief  was  so  great 
That  she  threw  herself  headlong  down  into  the  strait. 

MORAL. 

Young  men.  do  n't  swim  courting  on  stormy  nights, 

When  the  wind  may  blow  out  your  lady-love's  lights, 

For  besides  its  being  uncomfortably  damp, 

As  likely  as  not,  you  '11  die  of  the  cramp. 

Dear  girls,  if  by  luck  you  get  a  nice  beau, 

Keep  your  beacon-light  burning,  do  n't  let  the  chap  go. 


58  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  if  you  do  lose  him,  'tis  no  harm  to  cry 
Just  a  little,  but  remarkably  foolish  to  die. 

Hydepark,  Jan.,  1859. 


A  WISH. 

There  is  a  Love  no  tongue  can  tell, 
No  language  ever  hath  expressed — 

It  throws  a  pure  and  holy  spell 

O'er  him  who  welcomes  this  dear  guest. 

There  is  a  Joy  so  calm  and  sweet, 
Nought  troubles  its  serene  repose — 

'Tis  when  two  hands  in  union  meet, 
Together  joined  till  life  shall  close. 

There  is  a  Peace  to  mortals  given — 
A  Peace  the  faithful  only  know, 

A  holy  cairn  akin  to  Heaven, 

When  hearts  unite  for  weal  or  woe. 

May  yours  be  this  Love,  Joy  and  Peace, 
As  onward,  hand  in  hand,  you  go, 

And  when  the  pulse  of  life  shall  cease, 
That  purer  bliss  earth  cannot  know. 

Stowe,  Nov.  30,  1867. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  59 

SABBATH  EVENING. 

'Tis  a  quiet  Sabbath  evening, 

All  the  earth  seems  hushed  to  rest, 
Bright  the  setting  sun  is  gilding 

With  his  glories,  all  the  West. 
High  above,  the  clouds  are  blushing, 

From  the  ardor  of  his  gazi3 ; 
And  the  mountain-tops  are  shining 

In  the  splendor  of  his  rays. 

In  the  lone  and  quiet  churchyard, 

Softer  falls  the  evening  light, 
Resting,  with  a  saddened  luster, 

On  the  tombstones  fair  and  white  ; 
Casting  deep  and  lengthened  shadows 

O'er  each  lowly  sleeper's  bed, 
Shrouding  with  a  softened  radiance 

This  lone  city  of  the  dead. 

Gently  floats  the  evening  zephyr, 

Fanning  with  its  perfumed  breath, 
Now  the  blooming  cheek  of  beauty, 

Now  the  pallid  brow  of  death — 
Bringing  to  the  sick  and  dying, 

Visions  of  a  happier  shore, 
Whispering  to  the  broken-hearted 

Of  a  land  where  griefs  are  o'er. 

Mingling  with  the  brook's  low  murmur, 

Steals  the  cricket's  cheerful  song, 
Bidding  to  the  heart's  deep  slumbers 

Long-forgotten  memories  throng, 


60  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Of  some  pleasant  sun-lit  meadow, 
Or,  perchance,  sortie  shady  grove, 

Where,  with  throbbing  heart,  we  listened 
To  the  first  fond  words  of  love. 

Now  the  sun-light  all  has  faded, 

Twilight  settles  slowly  down, 
Clothing  all  the  distant  landscape 

In  a  dress  of  sober  brown — 
Draping  soft,  in  night  and  darkness, 

Palace  hall  and  cottage  hearth, 
Bringing  dreams  of  peace  and  gladness, 

To  the  weary  ones  of  earth. 

Very  lovely  is  all  nature — 

Sweetest  still  in  soft  repose, 
Telling  of  the  good  All-Father, 

From  Whose  hand  this  beauty  flows. 
May  we,  His  dear,  erring  children, 

Listen  to  His  voice  of  love, 
Till  it  leads  our  wandering  footsteps 

To  that  brighter  world  above. 
Hydepark,  Aug.  1854. 


LITTLE  BELL. 

0,  where  has  our  little  Bell  gone  ? 

Our  bright,  merry-eyed  little  Bell, 
With  her  footsteps  as  light  as  a  fawn — 

O  where  has  she  gone,  can  you  tell  ? 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  61 

Say,  where  falls  the  sound  of  her  voice, 
And  where  shines  the  light  of  her  eye  ? 

Those  sweet  charms  that  made  us  rejoice, 
0,  why  must  we  lose  them  ?  say  why. 

O,  where  gleams  the  gold  of  her  hair, 
And  where  do  those  little  feet  roam  ? 

We  miss  her  soft  tread  on  the  stair, 
We  see  her  no  more  in  our  home. 

The  thought— how  it  thrills  us  with  pain, 
How  it  falls  on  our  hearts  like  a  knell, 

That  never,  0,  never  again 

On  earth,  shall  we  see  little  Bell. 

The  flowers  above  her  will  grow, 

The  robin  will  sing  in  his  nest ; 
But  the  flower  we  laid  under  the  snow, 

Spring  cannot  awake  from  her  rest. 

But  O,  with  what  full  hearts  we  pray, 
That  when  for  us  time  shall  be  o'er, 

In  the  light  of  an  unclouded  day, 

We  shall  clasp  our  lost  darling  once  more. 
Bethel,  Dec.,  1868. 


HEART  DISEASE. 

I  once  was  exceedingly  troubled 
With  a  terrible  aching  and  smart, 

Just  where  physiologists  locate 

That  troublesome  thing  called  a  heart. 


62  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  also  was  very  much  given 

To  heaving  such  dolorous  sighs, 
That,  I  truly  believe,  had  you  seen  me, 

'T would  have  brought  the  salt  tears  to  your  eyes. 

Ma  could  not  imagine  what  ailed  me, 

But  thought  I  was  in  a  decline ; 
So  she  sent  in  great  haste  for  the  doctor, 

WTio  ordered  some  jalap  and  wine. 

But  this  did  not  seem  to  avail  me, 
Though  I  took  it  all  up  to  the  last, 

For  I  kept  right  on  getting  no  better 
At  a  rate  most  alarmingly  fast. 

Now  it  chanced  I  knew  more  than  the  doctor, 
For  whose  nostrums  I  cared  not  a  pin, 

For  I  found  that  I  always  felt  better 
When  I  saw  Charley  Jenkins  come  in. 

One  day  he  came  over  and  asked  me — 
Would  I  walk  to  the  top  of  the  hill? 

To  which  I  most  gladly  consented, 

Notwithstanding  they  thought  me  so  ill. 

What  he  told  me  I  shall  not  inform  you ; 

But  it  wrought  a  most  wonderful  spell, 
For  when  we  returned,  I  assure  you, 

I  was  wholly  and  perfectly  well. 

I  have  ever  since  held  the  opinion — 

And  the  same  to  you  will  impart — 
That  doctors  are  very  poor  judges, 
In  a  chronic  disease  of  the  heart. 
Hydepark,  1858. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  63 

REV.    P.    B.    FISK, 

'      OF  LXNDONVILLE. 

THE  FALL  OF  THE  PEMBERTON  MILL, 

AT  LAWRENCE,  MASS.,  JAN.  10, 1860. 
Written  and  delivered  at  Barre  Academy,  April,  1860. 

'T  was  midnight,  dark  and  still — the  silken  clouds 
Were  drawn  o'er  nature  as  she  sleeping  lay; 

For  guardian  angels  spread  their  sable  shrouds, 
To  keep  the  light  of  heaven's  lamps  away ; 

Reminding  mortals  in  their  busy  crowds, 
Night  is  for  rest — enough  for  gain  the  day ; 

No  sound  save  where  the  ice-bound  waters  sweep, 

To  lull  a  youthful  city  in  its  sleep. 

The  measured  toll  of  yonder  warning  bell 
Heralds  the  morn,  and  knells  for  yesterday, 

Its  solemn  strokes  the  lonely  watchmen  tell ; 
No  other  beings  walk  this  silent  way : 

A  day  is  gone  !  vain  men,  remember  well  I 
She  that  records  what  ye  may  do  or  say 

Is  balancing  the  page  now  consummate, 

And  weeps  to  find  your  debt  so  very  great. 

Gaze  where  that  massive  structure  rears  its  head 

Against  the  very  bosom  of  the  sky; 
No  luster  from  its  thousand  panes  is  shed, 

Its  myriad  pivots  listless,  powerless  lie, 
All  silent  as  the  charnel  of  the  dead ; 

Save  the  congealing  current  moving  by, 
Where,  hours  ago,  were  happy  maids  and  men, 
Where,  hours  to  come,  and  there  shall  be  again. 


64  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Hear  ye  a  voice,  with  threatening  portent, 
Pronouncing  doom  on  this  gigantic  hall : 

"  Before  the  measure  of  a  day  is  spent 

Floor,  walls  and  roof — one  general  wreck — shall  fall  • 

Pillar  and  pintle  from  foundation  rent, 
To  agony  or  death  shall  hasten  all : 

The  tale  shall  flow  this  snow-clad  country  o'er, 

As  pebble-waves  expand  and  lash  the  shore. 

"Whatever  power  may  hasten  to  their  aid, 
I  will  confront  with  all  my  fiendish  skill — 

I  '11  gorge  myself  in  deaths,  I  '11  not  be  stayed 
Till  I  of  human  gore  have  quaffed  my  fill. 

My  blasting  touch  shall  only  be  delayed 
Till  all  convene  whom  I  may  hope  to  kill, 

Then  I  '11  display  such  terror  through  a  night, 

That  all  who  see  shall  sicken  at  the  sight !" 

Again  oppressive  silence  reigns  supreme : 

One  star  looks  through  where  vapors  scarcely  part, 

As  when  a  mother's  eye  doth  fondly  beam 
On  the  pale  infant  cradled  near  her  heart, 

Then  shrouds  his  head  again,  nor  breaks  his  dream, 
Waiting  the  hour  for  slumber  to  depart; 

So  closed  again  the  drapery  of  night, 

And,  doubly  careful,  shut  out  all  the  light. 

The  hours  steal  on ;  the  bleak  winds,  haste  the  day, 
Which,  half  awake,  peeps  from  its  eastern  tower, 

While  night,  affrighted,  hurrying  away, 

Disturbs  the  mists  which  on  the  mountain  lower, 

And  soft  Aurora's  rosy  fingers  play 

The  whisper-prelude  of  the  morning  hour 

Upon  creation's  organ,  and  the  throng 

Of  laboring  swains  prepare  to  raise  the  song. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  65 

Among  these  cluster-roofs  a  Hercules, 

Aspiring  like  its  rival  structures  near, 
Stands  Pembertonv  emitting  to  the  breeze 

A  vapor-cloud,  as  challenging  a  fear ; 
Awaiting,  with  a  self-complaisant  ease, 

The  busy  hour  when  hundreds  gather  here  ; 
"A  hall  of  industry,"  the  passer  saith: 
Nay !  rather  say,  the  pyre  of  doom  and  death ! 

The  belfry  calls  with  its  imperial  tone — 

There's  quick  response  of  hasting  feet  below; 

With  cheerful  step  and  smile  approaches  one, 
Another  bowed  beneath  or  guilt  or  woe. 

Like  sullen  thunder,  muttering  at  the  sun, 
The  humming  wheels  in  swift  rotation  go, 

Gyrating  spindles  gossip  o'er  and  o'er 

The  tale  repeated  countless  times  before. 

Here  labor  they,  and  think  of  home  the  while, 
Who  ne'er  again  shall  pass  the  cottage  door ; 

Lover  meets  lover  with  a  glance  and  smile, 

Who  soon  shall  part  to  meet  on  earth  no  more — 

The  pure  still  pure,  the  vile  as  ever  vile, 
Unconscious  of  the  danger  just  before — 

Poor  victims !  one  hour  longer  are  ye  spared 

0,  would  to  heaven  that  ye  were  all  prepared. 

The  day-light  fades,  nor  ceases  then  the  din — 

As  when  afar  the  ocean-billow  roars ; 
While  comely  wares  accumulate  within 

Those  long  protective — but  now  prison  doors  ; 
Here  at  the  twilight  they  are  gathered  in, 

Some  to  their  peril,  more  to  end  their  course  ; 


66  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  messenger  of  ruin  takes  his  stand, 
And  on  the  fatal  pillar  lays  his  hand. 

A  moment  more  the  wheels  their  order  keep — 
A  shock  !  a  crash  !  and  men  like  drunkards  reel ; 

Or  like  a  soldier  roused  from  heavy  sleep, 
They  rush  on  ruin  with  a  maniac  zeal ! 

Down  cower  the  timid,  hut  the  wary  leap ; 
The  wall  falls  in,  and  sends  the  shocking  peal 

Far  on  the  air ;  the  giant  groans  his  last ; 

Earth  shudders  underneath,  and  all  is  past! 

One  instant  silence — then  the  painful  moan, 
The  shriek  of  fear,  the  pleading  for  release, 

The  curse  of  passion,  and  the  dying  groan, 
The  humble  prayer,  distinct  amid  all  these, 

The  bells  affrighted  at  the  ruin  done — 

The  shouts  which  from  the  gathering  crowds  increase 

The  agony  of  friends — all  these  combined 

Deafen  the  ear,  and  stupefy  the  mind  ! 

The  meshes  fine  which  span  New  England  o'er, 
Courses  where  harnessed  bolts  display  their  speed, 

Snatch  at  the  tale,  and  bear  from  door  to  door. 
Suspense  which  causes  many  a  heart  to  bleed ; 

Echo  comes  wondering  at  the  falling  roar, 

Flies  shouting,  and  returns  with  frantic  speed  ; 

Assiduous  thousands  to  the  rescue  run, 

But  after  hours,  the  work  is  scarce  begun. 

Darkness  broods  o'er  them,  and  with  lantern  dim, 
The  rescue-army  marches  to  success ; 

A  few  unhurt,  or  with  a  mangled  limb, 

And  tortured  numbers  writhing  in  distress, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  67 

Anon  the  dead,  all  ghastly  pale  and  grim, 
Are  lifted  from  the  ruin's  brutal  press ; 
While  scores  of  stricken  friends  run  here  and  there, 
Poising  a  feeble  hope  against  despair. 

Then  saw  ye  not  about  the  shattered  pile 
The  fiends  of  havoc  dancing  with  delight, 

Exulting  at  the  issue  of  the  wile, 

And  shouting  at  this  soul-appalling  sight, 

Glad  in  their  hearts  to  hear  the  lost  revile — 
Or,  when  a  soul,  unfolding  wings  of  light, 

Soars  to  the  "blissful  fields  where  angels  dwell," 

Venting  the  curses  only  learned  in  hell  ? 

And,  seeing  that  the  scheme  must  partly  fail 
If  those  still  living  should  escape  their  toils — 

Heard  ye  this  boast  ?     "  My  arm  shall  yet  prevail, 
And  gather  hence  a  vast  amount  of  spoils ! 

I  '11  triumph  till  the  stoutest  heart  shall  quail ; 
Till  every  mortal  from  the  scene  recoils  ! 

Kich  sport  had  I,  most  surely,  by  the  fall, 

Now,  richer  far  !  I  '11  sacrifice  them  all  !  " 

Yonder  in  wild  confusion  may  be  seen 

The  feathery  produce  of  a  tropic  sky, 
An  endless  mass,  compactly  pressed  between 

Those  unctuous  timbers  which  iri  splinters  lie ; 
Where  many  a  sufferer,  with  anguish  keen, 

Implores  the  rescue  not  to  let  him  die ; 
The  laborers,  hastening  thither  at  the  call, 
Bear  quick  release — from  mortal  life — to  all. 

They  come  with  that  Promethean  gift  a  slave ; 
A  missile  strikes  it  with  too  true  an  aim, 


68  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Bursts  off  the  fetters,  bids  the  despot  rave, 
Scorning  all  poor  attempts  to  quell  the  flame  ; 

Grasping,  relentless,  some  who  came  to  save, 
Others  pursuing  as  the  hawk  the  game, 

Leaping,  deriding,  when  the  signals  sound, 

But  to  augment  the  powerless  throng  around. 

The  swift  devourer  mocks  alike  the  prayer, 

The  curse,  the  song,  the  withering  cry  of  fear, 

The  firemen's  shout,  the  wailing  of  despair — 
0,  what  a  horrid  spectacle  is  here  ! 

Pity  stands  frozen,  useless  all  her  care  ; 

Love,  shocked  and  stunned,  denied  a  single  tear, 

Beholds  the  form  it  cannot  extricate 

Mantled  with  fire,  forsaken  to  its  fate  ! 

Ye  shudder  as  ye  hear  of  fire  at  sea, 

Where  none  can  come  to  lend  a  helping  hand ; 

The  heart  is  deeply  moved  with  sympathy, 
When  any  perish  by  the  frightful  brand, 

Though  distant  from  the  scene  of  agony ; 

What  then  the  sufferings  of  this  noble  band, 

Whose  best  exertions  stay  the  flames,  no  more 

Than  they  could  bale  the  ocean  on  the  shore ! 

Shut  up  the  scene — humanity  is  shocked — 

Count  not  the  number  of  these  charred  remains; 

Tell  not  how  many  homes  this  deed  hath  mocked ; 
Bid  dark  oblivion  come  and  soothe  their  pains  : 

One  thought  redeeming — it  may  have  unlocked 
Some  mortal  prisons,  and  the  joyful  strains 

Of  souls,  released  from  bonds  and  sorrow  here, 

Will  swell  the  anthems  of  a  better  sphere. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  69 

"Tis  but  a  more  severe  uncommon  blow. 


Descending  at  the  most  unguarded  hour — 
'Tis  but  what  some  of  us  perchance  may  know; 

'Tis  but  a  fever  of  terrific  power. 
Thus  Friendship  daily  mourns  its  dead  in  woe ; 

Thus  sorrow's  fountain  flows  each  bitter  hour 
The  soul  departs,  and  earth  resumes  her  clay, 
Making  the  careless  record — "  Passed  away." 


THE  CAMERA. 

Among  the  many  mansions,  one 

The  Dreamer  saw,  whose  crystal  wall 

Gathers  all 

To  focus  that  is  ever  done 

Among  the  children  of  the  fall ; 

All  that  concerns  the  doom  of  men — 

Result  of  deed,  word,  thought  or  pen, 

Be  't  wrong  or  right, 

Done  day  or  night, 

Well  fixed  upon  a  moving  screen, 

Each  action  in  its  proper  hue, 

By  this  omniscient  view 

Is  kept,  and  shall  be  seen — 

Yea,  seen  and  read, 

When  He  shall  come  to  judge  the  quick  and  dead. 

This  Angel-Camera  discerns 

The  look,  the  heart,  with  equal  ease ; 

Most  clearly  sees 

The  Guardians  as  they  help  and  wait ; — 


70  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

All  influences,  or  small  or  great, 

Into  the  picture  burns ; 

Each  several  life  correctly  drawn 

From  very  dawn, 

And  at  the  last 

A  shadow  or  a  golden  light  is  cast 

As — good  or  bad — the  influence  goes  on. 

The  Dreamer  saw  while  in  a  gallery  pacing 

Where  many  a  scene, 

Of  meadow  green, 

And  mountain  bold, 

And  people  young  and  old, 

Was  pictured  by  the  lens  with  its  steady  gazing, 

And  he — the  man  of  art, 

And  genial  heart — 

Was  pointing  its  impartial  eye 

From  out  his  window  high 

Upon  the  busy  city's  mart. 

An  Angel  raised  the  vail,  may-be, 

To  let  the  Dreamer's  soul  one  moment  see 

How  they  above 

Make  record  of  these  scenes  of  mortal  grief  and  love ; 

To  make  him  feel,  and  fear,  how  great  the  woe 

When  all  above,  below, 

Shall  see  that  picture  scroll 

Unroll — unr  o  11 — 

Disclosing  to  the  world  assembled  there, 

Written,  in  art's  clear  character, 

Much  that,  if  now  revealed,  he  could  not  bear. 

The  Angel  raised  the  vail,  may-be, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  71 

That,  soul !  the  Dreamer  might  declare  to  thee, 

Thy  life,  wrong,  right, 

Is  photographed  complete  in  IJeaven's  own  fadeless  light ! 

And  thou  (and  all) 

Shall  see  it  move  along  the  judgment  wall ! 

And  unless  thou  repent  betimes, 

And  Christ  with  his  own  blood,  expunge  thy  crimes, 

'Twill  read  so  to  thy  heart 

Thou  scarce  wilt  need  that  He  should  say  to  thee,  "Depart !" 


LINES 

SPOKEN  AT  BARRE,  THE  MORNING  AFTER  THE  FIRST  SNOW,  Nov.  7,  1859. 

There  's  snow  on  the  roof! — young  Spring  with  its  flowers 
Has  passed  all  its  sportive  and  ever-green  hours — 
Has  laid  by  its  garments  of  ripening  bloom, 

And,  in  mantling  gloom, 

It  falters  on  to  its  deep,  dark  tomb. 

There  's  snow  on  the  roof! — and  the  verdure  fled, 
Leaves  the  gray  old  year  with  a  heavy  head, 
And  his  trembling  voice  is  profuse  with  sighs, 

As,  in  vain,  he  tries 

To  weep  tears  congealed  in  his  faded  eyes. 

There  's  show  on  the  roof  ! — the  old  year  is  dead  ; 

For  the  winding-sheet  is  about  his  head, 

And  the  mournful  clouds  take  their  passing  view, 

While  the  winds  anew, 

Like  a  funeral  choir,  chant  the  last  adieu. 


72  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

There  's  snow  on  the  roof ! — but  the  year  that  's  gone 
Is  the  birth  of  the  new  that  is  coming  on 
Like  the  Phoenix — so  doth  the  New  Year  fly 

To  the  summer  sky, 

From  the  grave  where  the  sire  laid  him  down  to  die. 


THE  NEW  YEAR. 

Arise,  arise,  with  me  behold 

The  New  Year's  morning  dawn  : 
The  former  year,  so  dead,  so  cold, 

Has  with  dark  ages  gone. 
Behold  Aurora's  crimson  glow, 
Which  fades  before  the  day ; 
Then  rise,  and  each  the  other  bless, 
With  shouts  of  pleasure  say  : 
"  A  happy  day  to  you, 

^Who  have  no  danger  to  fear; 
We  wish,  with  hearts  'forever  true, 
A  happy,  happy  New  Year  !" 

On  western  summits  smiles  the  sun, 

Which  soon  shall  smile  on  thee, 
With  happy  heart  and  sparkling  eye, 

And  health  and  merry  glee, 
We  pray  the  coming  year  may  shower 

Its  thousand  joys  along  : 
Then  shout !  and  this  shall  always  be 

The  chorus  of  the  song : 
"  A  happy  day  to  yon, 

Who  have  no  danger  to  fear — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  73 

We  wish,  with  hearts  forever  true, 
A  happy,  happy  New  Year ! 


ODE, 

FOR  THE  CLASS  OF  '61,  BARRE,  VT.,  JULY  18,  1861. 

The  rain-drops  steal  into  the  fountain, 

And  mingle  their  thousands  in  one, 
Collected  awhile  in  the  mountain, 

Ere  down  the  sweet  valley  they  run — 
So,  but  yesterday  we  were  united 

To  prepare  for  the  duties  of  life ; 
The  day  we  long  have  invited 

Now  ushers  us  into  the  strife. 

The  rill  through  the  winding  dell  rushes, 

Brimmed  over  with  mosses  and  flowers, 
Now  into  the  noontide  it  gushes, 

Now  sleeps  in  the  shadow  for  hours — 
So  have  these  bright  seasons  been  numbered 

While  we  past  "the  future"  have  flown, 
We  scarcely  had  wakened  and  slumbered, 

Yet  reap  we  the  harvest  we've  sown. 

The  sun,  from  the  current  smooth-flowing, 

Draws  the  mist  to  the  cloud-pillared  skies — 
So,  while  we  together  were  going, 

Companions  were  snatched  from  our  eyes  : 
But  their  memory  never  shall  perish, 

While  onward  and  upward  we  tend, 
The  garland  of  friendship  we  '11  cherish — 

Thus  linked  to  a  life  without  end. 


74  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

As  the  lessening  brooklet  meanders 

To  be  lost  in  the  first-ripening  lea, 
Through  whose  thirsty  petals  it  wanders, 

In  channels  no  mortal  can  see ; 
So,  devoted  be  each  to  life's  mission, 

Unshaken,  though  everything  frown. 
Lo  !   sweet  is  the  promised  fruition  " 

"  To  the  humblest — the  jewel-set  crown" 


GOD  SEES. 

Sometimes  the  guardian  angels  cheat 
The  mortals  of  their  care  ; 

They  lead  them  where  a  blessing  waits, 
Blind-fold  and  unaware ; 

Then  snatch  the  vail  away,  and  shout 
O'er  their  surprise  with  glee, 

And  bid  them,  in  all  future  gloom. 
Remember — God  can  see  ! 


ON  LITTLE  MOUNT  WAITSFIELD,  JUNE,  1855. 

I  love  to  sit  on  some  gray  crag, 

When  twilight  softly  nears, 
And  see  the  valley  dressed  in  green, 
The  sun's  resplendent  mellow  sheen, 
The  cloudy  fold  all  tinged  with  gold, 

Just  as  it  now  appears. 

I  love  to  watch  the  flock  and  herd, 
But  more  I  take  delight 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  75 

In  the  gay  songster's  happiness, 
As,  now  on  that  tree,  now  on  this, 
With  other  harmony  afar, 
It  blends  at  blush  of  night. 

I  love  to  watch  the  coming  storm, 

And.  hear  the  chariot  roll  ; 
No  terror  now  its  voice  inspires, 
But  awe  of  Him  who  lights  these  fires ; 
A  reverent  love  of  One  above, 

The  Maker  of  the  soul. 

I  love  to  see  the  tinted  bow, 

The  flag  of  truce  to  man  ; 
No  artist-hand  can  ever  trace 

Such  richness  on  the  canvas'  face, 
Nothing  below  can  ever  glow 

Like  this  celestial  span. 

I  love  from  these  to  learn  of  Him 

Who  built  the  earth  and  skies ; 
His  name,  the  great  "  I  AM,1'  I  see 

Impressed  on  creature,  rock  and  tree, 
In  earth,  and  air,  and  everywhere 

His  glorious  image  lies. 

I  love  all  Nature — all  I  see 

Confirms  the  hope  I  own, 
Helps  me  believe  that  He,  Who  made. 

Sustains  the  earth,  the  light,  and  shade, 
Numbers  my  days,  deservesjmy  praise ; 

My  God  is  ^God  alone. 


76  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

(PS.  XXIII:  5— JEK.  II:  13. 

My^cup  of  enjoyment  doth  never  run  o'er, 
I  sip  the  last  swallow  while  thirsting  for  more  ; 
Alone  in  the  desert  of  doubt  and  of  gloom, 
Naught  pleasant  behind,  and  before  me  the  tomb. 

Oh !  why  should  I  wander,  thus  parted  from  God, 
And  do  I  deserve  this  most  torturing  rod  ? 
Why  must  I  be  groping,  when  others  have  light  ? 
Why  may  not  my  cup  be  overflowing  to-night  ? 

The  cup  of  my  heart,  so  deceitful  hath  been, 
I  did  not  discover  the  fracture  of  sin  5 
Delaying  to  drink,  although  ready  to  faint, 
I  wasted  the  good  while  I  uttered  complaint. 

0,  Saviour  forgive  me  the  murmurs  I  think! 
When  my  cup  is  refilled  let  me  hasten  to  drink : 
Then  speed  on  Thy  errand,  lefreshed  from  above, 
Nor  permit  sin  to  rob  me  of  half  of  Thy  love. 


OUR  WARRIOR  BROTHERS. 

CLASS  OF  1863,  BANGOR  SEMINARY. 

Twice  eight  brothers  abide, 

One  sleeps  under  the  sod, 
Three,  with  swords  at  their  side, 

Fighting  and  trusting  in  God. 

Three  whom  we  love  and  revere, 
Three  we  remember  in  prayer, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  77 

Hoping  to  meet  again  here, 

And  to  sing  the  u  new  song"  with  them  there. 

Three  who,  from  motives  of  right, 

Bravely  have  taken  the  field ; 
God  of  all  justice  and  might ! 

Be  Thou  their  Helper  and  Shield. 

To  the  rescue  they  run  with  a  will, 

True  to  their  country  and  Thee ; 
Father,  Thy  promise  fulfil : 

Their  Rock  and  their  Comforter  be  : 

Fainting,  oh,  strengthen  their  heart, 

Lowly — commune  with  them  more, 
Short-sighted — wisdom  impart, 

Battling — go  Thou  before, 

Fearing— say  Thou,  "  It  is  I !  " 

Show  them  the  army  of  flame ; 
Wounded — with  healing  be  nigh, 

Help  them  to  honor  Thy  name. 

Twice  eight  brothers  abide, 

One  sleeps  under  the  sod, 
Three,  with  swords  at  their  side, 

Fighting  and  trusting  in  God. 

One  in  the  hopes  that  we  share, 

One  in  our  hearts  let  us  be, 
One  in  our  every  prayer, 

And  one,  blessed  Saviour  !  in  Thee. 


78  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  LILY  AND  ITS  SHADOW. 

A  purling  brook,  from  out  the  dell, 
Tinkling  in  sweet  cascadelets,  fell, 
It  circled  round  the  birchVroot  — 
It  eddied  at  the  gray  rock's  foot — 
Where  watched  the  speculating  trout 
To  seize  the  tiny  prey,  that  buzzed  about. 

Within  a  little  grassy  nook 
A  lily  forth  its  petals  shook, 
And  bent  so  low  its  modest  face, 
All  peerless  in  its  native  grace, 
That,  on  the  mirror  stream,  it  viewed 

Another  flower — its  own  similitude. 

f 

Now  lower  bent  the  lily's  gaze, 
And  up  the  phantom  came  apace  ; 
More  beautiful  the  image  grew, 
The  lily  nearer,  nearer  drew, 
Till — as  its  maiden  lip  was  wet — 
The  lily  and  its  charming  shadow  met. 

Aback  it  drew,  as  if  in  shame, 

And  lo  !  the  phantom  did  the  same ; 

Each  move  was  roguishly  repeated, 

And  soon — as  willing  to  be  cheated — 

A  new  advance  the  lily  made, 

Returned  by  fond  embraces  from  the  shade. 

Now  'reft  of  every  bashful  coy 
Companionship  became  their  joy — - 
They  meet,  they  part,  as  if  in  jest, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  79 

The  wave  forbidding  them  to  rest, 
When  Autumn  stole  the  Summer's  place, 
It  found  .the  lily  with  a  morbid  face. 

Soiled,  faded,  crumpled,  there  it  hung, 

Pained  at  the  look  the  shadow  flung ; 

No  more  it  bowed,  as  erst  'twas  fain, 

The  phantom  ne'er  advanced  again, 

Till,  severed  from  the  stem,  they  gave 

One  last  embrace,  and  floated  down  the  wave. 

And  't  is  sometimes  with  souls  like  ours, 

As  with  the  dell-born  Summer-flowers; 

Affection  hath  its  image  made, 

One  lives  to  be  another's  shade ; 

One  dies — the  grave  receives  a  pair — 

Lovely  in  life,  they  're  not  divided  there. 

And  there  are  pleasures  which  we  crave, 
Like  as  the  lily  sought  the  wave —    - 
Suspicious,  but  desired  the  more ; 
Sweet-meats,  with  poison  at  the  core — 
They  lure  us  in  our  youth  and  bloom, 
And  mock  and  sting  us,  even  to  the  tomb. 

Man,  like  the  lily,  bows  him  down 
To  pleasure's  fountain,  and  a  frown 
Or  smile  is  mirrored  on  the  wave, 
According  to  the  look  he  gave ; 
Wastes  all  his  talents  on  the  train 
Which  ripples  by,  and  ne'er  returns  again. 

We  live  and  thrive  onr  little  hour, 
Like  to  the  dell-born  Summer-flower ; 


80  GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

We  sport  our  precious  time  away, 

Then  yield  in  sorrow  to  decay ; 

Resign,  at  last,  our  vital  breath, 

And — scarcely  missed — float  down  the  river  Death. 


LINES 

In  reply  to  a  letter  from   Newburyport,  Mass.,  which    closed  with   the  words, 
"  Write !  Let  the  mountains  talk  to  the  sea." 

Lo,  the  mountains  to  the  sea, 

— "Restless  sea" — 

Send  their  greeting  j 

Well  know  we, 

Though  never  meeting — 

With  our  fountains  flowing  free, 

We  are  cousins — distant  cousins, 

Real  cousins  to  the  sea ; 

0,  ye  billows  of  the  shore  ! 

As  ye  rise,  and  charge  and  roar, 

Are  ye  not  the  mountain-billows  ? 

Were  ye  not  in  days  of  yore  ? 

Send  not  we  the  frequent  greeting  ? 

Send  not  ye  the  oft  reply  ? 

Crystal  rivers  murmur  sea-ward  : 

Swift-winged  clouds  return  on  high : 

Happy  to  confess  are  we 

Our  relations  to  the  sea. 

Like  your  waves,  or  high,  or  low, 

— Petrified  and  changeless  though — 

Are  the  ranges  of  the  hills, 

Dashed  with  rills, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  81 

\Vhite-capped  with  perpetual  snow, 
Blue  like  you  in  distance  seen, 
On  approach,  we  too  are  green : 
We  are  cousins,  0  ye  billows  ! 
Real  cousins  to  the  sea, 
Both  in  feature,  name  and  feeling, 
And  we  always  mean  to  be. 
July  25,  1866. 


MISS    JULIA    WALLACE,    HOW  MRS.    JULIA    HUTCHINS, 

OF   WATERBURY. 

THE  RETURN. 

A  bark  has  left  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

A  Prince  is  at  the  helm, 
She  bears  the  Exile  Emperor 

Back  to  his  ancient  realm. 
No  joyous  shout  bursts  from  her  crew 

As  o'er  the  waves  they  glance, 
But  silently,  through  foam  and  spray, 

Seek  they  the  shores  of  France. 

A  soldier  comes !  haste,  comrades,  haste  ! 

To  greet  him  on  the  strand  ; 
'Tis  long  since  by  his  side  ye  fought 

For  Glory's  chosen  land. 
A  Leader  comes !  let  loud  hurras 

Burst  from  the  extended  line, 
And  glancing  arms,  and  helmets  raised, 

In  martial  splendor  shine. 

A  Conqueror  comes  !  fly  Austrian,  fly  ! 
Before  his  awful  frown  ; 


82  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Kneel,  Lombard,  kneel !  that  pallid  brow 
Has  worn  the  Iron  Crown ! 

The  eagle  waves  !  the  trumpet  sounds ! 
Amid  the  cannon's  roar, 

Ye  victors  of  a  hundred  fields 
Surround  your  Chief  once  more  ! 

Thrills,  high  again,  the  warlike  strain 

That  rose  upon  Marengo's  plain, 
And,  to  the  breeze  in  triumph  flung, 

O'er  Alpine  cliff  and  glacier  rung ! 
No  terror  now  is  in  that  sound, 

A  haughty  foe  to  quell; 
The  bugle-note  is  wild  and  sad ; 

It  only  breathes — "  Farewell." 

A  monarch  comes !  From  royal  arms 

Remove  the  envious  rust ; 
A  monarch  comes — the  triple  crown 

Free  from  the  gathered  dust. 

Guard  him  not  to  the  halls  of  state, 

His  diadem  is  riven  : 
But  bear  him  where  yon  hallowed  dome 

Repeats  the  arch  of  heaven ; 
And,  with  the  requiem's  plaintive  swell, 

With  dirge  and  solemn  prayer, 
Enter  the  marble  halls  of  death, 

Enthrone  your  monarch  there  ! 

A  Husband  comes  !  Imperial  Bride 

Unbar  thy  regal  bower; 
Let  music  ring  through  every  hall, 

Light  stream  from  every  tower. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  83 

Haste  !  gentle  wife,  to  greet  those  lips — 

They  have  been  long  impressed — 
That  weary  head  may  slumber  now 

On  thy  devoted  breast. 

She  comes  not  thus;  imperial  grief! 

Her  tears  were  lightly  shed, 
Whose  whole  life  should  have  been  one  thought — 

The  memory  of  the  dead  ! 

Yet  stay — call  her  whom  first  he  loved, 

The  partner  of  his  state — 
That  "Child  of  Destiny,"  whose  star 

Ascendant  ruled  his  fate  ! 
She  sleeps — they  may  not  meet  again 

E'en  in  Death's  cold  embrace ; 
Oh !  ne'er  beside  that  hallowed  dust, 

His  recreant  ashes  place  ! 
She  lived,  while  fortune  smiled  on  him 

Without  one  changeful  frown — 
She  lived,  and  Heaven  bestowed  an  heir 

To  his  imperial  crown. 
But  when  her  smitten  idol  bowed 

Beneath  misfortune's  stroke  ; 
She  had  a  human  heart — it  bled, — 

A  woman's  heart — it  broke. 

No  cannon-peal  burst  o'er  her  grave, 
No  drooping  banner  there  shall  wave  ; 
But  hers  shall  be  a  purer  fame 
Than  that  which  gilds  a  conqueror's  name ; 
Her  grave  be  deemed  a  holier  shrine 
Than  thine,  Heir  of  the  world,  than  thine  ! 


84  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  Want's  pale  children,  hand  in  hand, 
Moved  with  her  princely  funeral  band, 
And  gratitude  its  blessing  shed 
'  To  consecrate  her  peaceful  bed;^ 
While  filial  love  one  touching  line 
Traced  on  the  tomb  of  Josephine. 

A  father  comes !  Haste,  princely  son  ! 

With  banner,  plume  and  lance, 
Lead  forth,  to  greet  thy  sire's  return, 

The  chivalry  of  France  ; 
And  kneel  upon  thy  country's  sod, 

Amid  that  noble  band, 
In  loyal  pride,  in  filial  love, 

To  kiss  the  regal  hand. 

Hush,  hush !  a  plaint,  a  voice  of  wail 
Floats  faintly  on  the  dying  gale, 
And  through  a  distant  castle's  halls, 
Along  its  high,  its  haunted  walls, 
A  sigh  steals  on :  it  speaks  of  doom — 
A  noteless  grave — an  early  tomb  ! 

A  son  returns  !  fond  mother,  come ! 

He  waits  thy  dear  caress ; 
Once  more,  upon  that  lofty  brow, 

Thy  lips  in  fondness  press; 
And  think  not  of  the  Emperor, 

The  chief,  the  mighty  man, 
But  clasp  again  thy  fair-haired  boy — 

Thy  youthful  Corsican. 
Ah !  age  and  grief  have  dimmed  those  eyes ; 

But,  placed  upon  that  head, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  85 

A  mother's  hand  would  recognize — 
That  mother,  too,  is  dead. 

And  what  a  destiny  was  hers ! 

A  fair  and  youthful  bride, 
When  dangers  filled  her  husband's  path, 

She  shared  them  by  his  side  : 
A  mother  next,  and  infant  eyes 

To  hers  look  sweetly  up ; 
O,  was  not  this  the  dearest  drop 

That  blest  her  mingled  cup  ? 
A  widowed  matron,  then,  we  see, 

Amid  that  youthful  band, 
And  one  by  one  they  left  her  side 

To  shine  in  other  land. 
A  woman  next,  whom  friendly  Fates 

Had  raised  on  rapid  wings, 
The  parent  of  a  royal  group — 

A  family  of  Kings  ! 
And  then  an  exile,  sad  and  lone, 
Lamenting  over  glories  flown, 
In  sorrow's  hour  uncomforted, 
Like  her  who  wept  o'er  Rama's  dead  : 
Death's  frost  fell  kindly  on  her  brow — 
The  worn  heart  feels  no  sorrow  now. 

A  brother  comes — fraternal  ties 

May  now  be  joined  again, 
Since  fate  restores  the  brightest  link 

That  glittered  in  the  chain. 
Ho  !  brothers  brave,  and  sisters  fair, 

With  joyous  welcome  come, 
And  meet  as  erst  in  pleasant  bowers, 


86  GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Of  your  own  Island  home. 
No — Time,  and  Death,  and  Distance  tell 

That  call  is  raised  in  vain — 
The  weary  exiles  may  not  meet 

In  their  childhood's  home  again. 

Napoleon  comes !  go  speak  that  word, 

At  midnight's  awful  hour, 
On  the  Champ  de  Mars !  will  it  not  prove 

A  spell  of  fearful  power  ? 
Will  not  a  shadowy  host  arise 

From  field  and  mountain  ridge, 
From  Waterloo,  from  Austerlitz, 

From  Lodi's  fatal  bridge, 
And  wheel  in  airy  echellon 

From  pass,  and  height,  and  plain, 
To  form,  upon  that  ancient  ground, 

Their  scattered  ranks  again'? 

Go  speak  it  in  the  Louvre's  halls, 

'Mid  priceless  works  of  Art ; 
Will  not  each  life-like  figure  from 

The  glowing  canvas  start  ? 
In  proud  Versailles,  where  heroes  frown, 

And  monarchs  rule  in  stone ; 
Across  those  chiselled  lips  will  not 

A  startling  murmur  run  ? 

No,  no — the  marble  still  may  be 
Cold,  cold  and  silent — so  is  he  ; 
The  pencil's  living  hues  may  bloom — 
His  form  has  faded  in  the  tomb, 


GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  87 

And  warriors,  in  their  narrow  homes, 
Sleep,  reckless  that  their  leader  comes. 

Napoleon  comes !  but  Rhine's  full  flood 
Bolls  on  without  a  tinge  of  blood ; 
The  Pyramids  still  frown,  in  gloom 
And  grandeur,  o'er  an  empty  tomb  ; 
And  sweetly  still  the  moonbeam  smiles 
On  Venice,  of  the  fairy  Isles. 

Napoleon  comes !  but  Moscow's  spires 
Have  ceased  ta  glow  with  hostile  fires ; 
No  spirit,  in  a  whisper  deep, 
Proclaims  it,  where  his  legions  sleep; 
Or  sighs,  from  column,  tower,  or  dome, 
A  name  that  hushed  thy  heart,  gray  Borne, 
For  life  and  power  have  passed  away, 
And  he  is  here — a  thing  of  clay. 

Silent  the  gazing  nations  pause 

In  awe  and  reverence  here ; 
While  France,  the  mighty  mourner,  bends 

Above  her  hero's  bier. 
Ah  !  fear,  and  hate,  and  rivalry, 

To  human  sorrow  turn — 
E'en  haughty  England  drops  a  tear 

Upon  Napoleon's  urn. 

He  will  not  wake  at  war's  alarm, 

Its  music  or  its  moans ; 
He  will  not  rise  when  Europe  hears 

The  crash  of  crumbling  thrones — 
When  institutions,  gray  with  age, 


88  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Are  numbered  with  forgotten  things  ; 
And  privilege,  and  "  right  divine," 
Rest  with  the  people  —not  their  kings. 

The  trophied  marble  proudly  pile — 

Earth's  tribute  to  her  brave — 
The  warrior's  place  of  pilgrimage 

Shall  be  Napoleon's  grave. 
France,  envying  long  his  island  tomb 

Amid  the  lonely  deep, 
Has  gained  at  last  the  treasured  dust — 

Sleep,  mighty  mortal,  sleep ! 
Ay — dreamless  as  the  unhonored  dead 

Beneath  earth's  humblest  sod, 
Rest,  till  the  Archangel's  trump  shall  sound 

The  summons  of  thy  God. 


C.    R.    BALLARD,    A.    M. 

PRINCIPAL  OF  WOODSTOCK   HIGH   SCHOOL. 


TO  A  BUTTERFLY  IN  CHURCH. 

Why  fliest  thou 
Where  mortals  worship  here  below  ? 

Thou  needest  not  to  bow 
In  prayer,  nor  praises  to  bestow. 

Thou  feelest  not 
The  guilt  that  stains  the  human  heart ; 

Thine  is  a  better  lot, 
In  man's  disgrace  thou  hast  no  part. 


GREEN  -MOUNTAIN  POETS.  89 

Free  thing  !  all  days 
Alike  are  given  thee  for  rest  ; 

Why,  then,  disturb  our  praise, 
When  Sabbath  comes,  with  hours  so  blest  ? 

Hadst  thou  not  sought 

O 

The  Courts  of  God,  thou  simple  thing, 

Then  had  our  every  thought 
Not  chased  thee  on  thy  nimble  wing. 

We  scarcely  heard 
The  Invocation,  and  the  Song 

Of  Praise— the  Holy  Word  ! 
And  yet  we  think  thou  didst  no  wrong. 

For  thou  didst  seem 
The  emblem  of  that  Better  Life, 

Of  which  we  sometimes  dream, 
When  resting  from  earth's  toil  and  strife. 

We  gazed  at  thee, 
And  thought  that  thou  a  worm  hadst  been ! 

But  now  thou  roamest  free, 
Like  ransomed  spirit,  freed  from  sin  ! 

We  still  are  bound ; 
Still  dwell  in  tenements  of  clay  ; 

Freedom  for  us  is  found 
Not  yet,  nor  Resurrection-day. 

Bright  Butterfly  ! 
From  thee  a  lesson  let  us  learn ; 

We  too,  like  thee,  must  die, 
But  when  to  dust  shall  dust  return  ? 


90  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

May  we  arise, 
And,  on  wings  brighter  far  than  thine, 

Mount  upward  to  the  skies, 
And  dwell  in  Light  and  Life  Divine. 


STREW  FLOWERS. 

("  DECORATION  DAT,"  MAT  30,  1869,) 

Strew  flowers  on  the  soldier's  grave, 

For  he  bravely  fought  and  fell, 
That  Freedom's  Flag  might  forever  wave 

O'er  the  land  we  love  so  well. 
And  he  willingly  died  to  save 

These  beautiful  homes  of  ours ; 
So  let  us  adorn  his  lowly  grave 

With  garlands  of  choicest  flowers. 

Strew  flowers  on  the  soldier's  grave, 

For  he  left  home,  friends,  and  all ; 
And,  among  the  bravest  of  the  brave, 

Went  forth  at  his  country 's  call ; 
And,  among  the  foremost,  fell ! 

And  these  sad  Memorial  hours, 
Let  us  gladly  use  of  his  worth  to  tell, 

While  we  strew  his  grave  with  flowers. 

Strew  flowers  on  the  soldier's  grave, 
For  his  heart  beat  fast  for  the  fray, 

As  he  saw  the  Starry  Banner  wave, 
While  he  hurried  from  home  away ; 

And  boldly  he  marched  to  the  front, 
And  he  recked  not  sun  nor  showers ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  91 

But  now  there 's  a  slab  with  his  name  upon  't, 
And  there  let  us  scatter  flowers. 

Strew  flowers  on  the  soldier's  grave, 

O  / 

'Tis  but  little  that  we  can  do  ; 
For  he  passed,  long  since,  Death's  icy  wave 

To  that  land  where  alias  new ; 
And  we  trust  he  enjoys,  to-day, 

A  more  beautiful  Home  than  ours ; 
Yet  we  feel  'tis  well,  while  here  we  stay, 

To  embellish  his  grave  with  flowers. 

Strew  flowers  on  the  soldier's  grave, 

For  Life's  Battle,  with  him,  is  o'er; 
And  this  goodly  land  that  he  died  to  save, 

Will  know  him,  alas,  no  more. 
Let  his  resting-place  be  kept  green, 

Until  perish  these  hearts  of  ours, 
And  our  eyes  behold  the  celestial  sheen 

Of  his  Wreath  of  Immortal  Flowers. 


UP  THE  SCHOOL-HOUSE  HILL. 

Ha  !  the  bell  is  ringing !  "jingle,  jingle,  jingle  ! " 
See  the  lads  and  misses,  all  together  mingle. 
Busy  feet  are  moving— moving,  moving  still ; 
Still,  and  yet  so  noisy,  up  the  School-house  hill. 

Play-ground  is  forsaken ;  sports  are  all  suspended- 
Hoop,  so  nicely  trundled  ;  wicket  well  defended  ; 
Ball,  or  hunting  frolic ;  mimic  fight,  or  drill — 
Actors  all  are  moving  up  the  School-house  hill. 


92  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

See !  from  far  they're  coming — road,  and  lawn,  and  wildwood, 
All  are  sweetly  vocal  with  the  laugh  of  childhood. 
Lightly  are  they  tripping,  ill  at  ease,  until 
With  their  mates,  they  're  ranging  up  the  School-house  hill. 

See  the  ruddy  faces,  full  of  life  and  beauty ; 
Mark  the  bosoms  swelling  with  a  sense  of  duty. 
Innocence,  how  gentle !   Love,  that  fears  no  ill, 
Boldly  march,  together,  up  the  School-house  hill. 

Men,  whose  deeds  of  honor  yet  shall  win  them  glory ; 
Men,  whose  praise  shall  ever  live  in  song  or  story ; 
Men,  whose  clarion  voices  tyrant  hearts  shall  thrill ; — 
Men,  to  be,  are  going  up  the  School-house  hill. 

Women,  whose  devotion  not  e'en  death  shall  sever  ; 
Women,  whose  attainments  earth  shall  value  ever ; 
Women,  whose  blest  mission  they  so  well  fulfill;  — 
Women,  such  are  tripping  up  the  School-house  hill. 

Lovely  scene  !  inviting  poet's  smoothest  measures — 
Youthful  minds  engaged  in  search  for  hidden  treasures ; 
Never  searching  vainly;  "Where  there  is  a  will 
There  's  a  way  " — a  sure  one — up  the  School-house  hill. 

Let  the  bell  keep  ringing — ringing  in  the  morning ; 
Ringing  out  its  matin ;  ringing  timely  warning ; 
Ringing  for  the  school-boys,  like  a  clarion  shrill ; 
Calling  rosy  school-girls  up  the  School-house  hill. 

Ye  who  gaze  enchanted  on  some  landscape  pretty ; 
Ye  who  list,  with  rapture,  to  some  mellow  ditty  ; 
Ye  who  hear  rich  music  in  the  warbling  rill — 
Go  with  me,  in  fancy,  up  the  School-house  hill. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  93 

Watch  the  scene,  how  nature  in  herself  rejoices ; 

Hear  the  mingled  chorus  of  her  childish  voices ; 

List  her  witching  music,  as-the  magic  trill 

Breaks  from  myriad  heart-strings,  up  the  School-house  hill. 


"P.  H.  W." 

(  DIED  APRIL  24,  1869.) 

At  rest  is  that  active  brain ! 

That  busy  hand  is  still ! 
And  his  Native  State  will  search  in  vain 

For  another  his  place  to  fill ! 


THE  PACIFIC  RAILWAY, 

FINISHED,  MAT  10, 1869. 
"  And  a  Highway  shall  be  there." 

'Tis  "Done" — the  wondrous  thoroughfare! 

Type  of  that  Highway  all  divine  ! 
No  ancient  wronder  can  compare 

With  this,  in  grandeur  of  design. 
For,  'twas  no  visionary  scheme 

To  immortalize  the  builder's  name ; 
No  impulse  rash,  no  transient  dream 

Of  some  mere  worshiper  of  Fame. 

Rare  common  sense  conceived  the  plan, 
For  working  out  a  lasting  good — 

The  full  development  of  Man  ; 

The  growth  of  human  brotherhood  ! 


94  GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  lo  !  by  patient  toil  and  care, 

The  work  with  rare  success  is  crowned ; 

And  nations,  yet  to  be,  will  share 
In  blessings  which  shall  e'er  abound. 

Across  a  continent's  expanse, 

The  lengthening  track  now  runs  secure, 
O'er  which  the  Iron  Horse  shall  prance, 

So  long  as  earth  and  time  endure  ! 
His  course  extends  from  East  to  West — 

From  where  Atlantic  billows  roar, 
To  where  the  quiet  waters  rest, 

Beside  the  far  Pacific  shore. 

Proud  commerce,  by  Atlantic  gales 

Tossed  to  and  fro — her  canvas  rent — 
Will  gladly  furl  her  wearied  sails, 

And  glide  across  a  continent. 
Through  smiling  valleys,  broad  and  free, 

O'er  rivers  wide,  or  mountain-crest, 
Her  course  shall  swift  and  peaceful  be, 

'Till  she  has  reached  the  farthest  West. 

And  e'en  the  treasures  of  the  East, 

Diverted  from  their  wonted  track, — 
Writh  safety  gained,  with  speed  inereased,- 

Will  follow  in  her  footsteps  back. 
And  thus  the  Nations,  greatly  blest, 

Will  share  another  triumph,  won, 
That  links  yet  closer  East  and  West — 

The  rising  and  the  setting  sun ! 

This  glorious  day  with  joy  we  greet ! 
May  Faith  abound,  may  Love  increase, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  95 

And  may  this  highway,  now  complete, 

Be  the  glad  harbinger  of  Peace  ! 
God  bless  the  Work,  tjiat  it  may  prove 

The  source  of  greater  good  in  store, 
When  Man  shall  heed  the  law  of  Love, 

And  Nations  shall  learn  war  no  more. 


FADED  WILD  FLOWER. 

A  few  days  since,  this  withered  flower, 

Upon  its  parent  stem, 
Would  e'en  have  graced  the  fairest  bower, 

Or  spotless  diadem. 

It  bloomed  'mid  flowers  of  varied  hue, 

That  decked  its  forest-bed, 
The  sun,  and  shower,  and  gentle  dew, 

Its  fragrant  beauty  fed. 

The  whippoorwill  and  mourning  dove, 
With  plumage  gay  and  bright, 

Above  it  told  their  tales  of  love, 
And  sang  the  livelong  night. 

And  will  these  flowers  forever  bloom 

In  beauty  fair  and'  gay  ? 
Or  do  they  blossom  for  the  tomb, 

Then  wither  and  decay  ? 

And  will  this  warbling  feathered  throng, 

Their  notes  forever  blend  ? 
Ah,  no ;  like  ours,  their  sweetest  song 

Full  soon  will  have  an  end. 


96  GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  there  are  never-fading  flowers, 

And  songs  that  ever  rise  ; 
They  blossom  in  Elysian  bowers, 

And  echo  in  the  skies. 

Oh,  cherish,  then,  the  birds  and  flowers, 
For  they  are  symbols  given  ; 

Their  beauty,  fragrance,  vocal  powers, 
Are  typical  of  Heaven. 


FINANCES  OF  1857. 

Hard  times  is  now  the  mournful  theme, 
Of  speech,  and  thought,  and  nightly  dream  ; 
Where  dollars  were,  are  now  but  dimes, 
In  these  distressing,  mournful  times. 

The  lawyer  grasps  his  client's  fee, 
The  engine  pipes  her  mournful  glee, 
As,  wending  on  Jier  distance  far, 
She  drags  her  empty  railroad  car. 

The  banks  refusing  to  discount, 
Except  to  very  small  amount  ; 
While  men  of  wealth  begin  to  taper, 
Contriving  how  to  meet  their  paper. 

Merchant's  clerks  begin  to  pale, 
Who  never  handled  axe  or  flail ; 
And  many  more  begin  to  pine 
For  want  of  place  to  sleep  and  dine. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  97 

Happy  are  they  who  have  in  store 
Enough  for  comfort,  though  no  more ; 
Who  have  with  prudence  saved  their  dimes, 
Against  the  coming  of  hard  times. 


OVER  THE  LINE. 

A  LETTER  TO  THE  RUTLAND  (  YT.)  HERALD. 

Whitehall,  N.  Y.,  October,  1859. 
In  an  age  like  the  present,  when  all  will  agree 
That  the  chief  end  of  life  is,  to  hear  and  to  see : 
When  the  million  are  anxiously  gaping  for  news, 
Be  it  thrilling  or  tame,  to  instruct  or  amuse  : 
When  the  world  is  in  haste  for  "the  latest  thing  out," 
And  our  neighhors  must  know  what  we  all  are  ahout  :- 
Sure, -no  pardon  is  needed,  for  me  or  for  mine, 
If  I  send  you  a  letter  from  over  the  Line. 

Not  the  "  wickedest  place"  is  this  famous  Whitehall ! 
Not  so  had  as  you  hear :  not  so  "  hard,"  after  all. 
Like  some  other  things  it  is  "  hard"  at  "  the  Point," 
But  where  is  the  village  that  has  n't  a  flaw  in  't  ? 
Some  dismal,  dark  corner,  where  wickedness  thrives, 
Where  virtue  is  periled,  and  cheap  are  men's  lives  ? 
Yet  the  Sabbath-bells  greet  us  from  many  a  shrine, 
And  a  host  of  good  people  live  over  the  Line. 

'Tis  not  classic  Whitehall, — for  I  think  it  quite  clear 
That  the  "  House  built  by  Inigo  Jones"  isn't  here. 
'Tis  too  modern  for  that — why,  'tis  very  New  York  ! 
Though  the  looks  of  the  people  remind  me  of  Cork  : 


98  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Not  the  whole  of  them,  sure ;  yet  the  half  that  I  meet 

Wear  an  air  very  foreign,  in  shop  or  in  street. 

It  is  not  a  Green- Mountain  air ;  so  I  incline 

To  suspect  I  have  journeyed  quite  over  the  Line. 

'Tis  not  rigid  Vermont,  where  men's  rights  are  curtailed, 

Strong  bars  taken  down,  and  rum-barrels  assailed  ! 

Where  the  Law,  most  unjustly,  as  some  people  think, 

Makes  it  "  unconstitutional"  even,  to  drink  ! 

Here  the  legal  obsructions  are  out  of  the  way ; 

And  yet  men  will  fall,  for  'tis  only  to-day 

That  I  saw  one,  like  Troilus,  lying  supine, 

And  I  said  to  myself — "  He  's  clear  over  the  Line  !" 

As  to  Politics — well,  I  half  wish  I  were  back 
Where  Republicanism  makes  every  thing  "  Black:" 
Where  the  "  Stump-Tails  "  are  few,  and  the  "  Cow-Boys" 

are  fewer, 

And  Democracy's  doom  is  both  speedy  and  sure. 
Here  are  Democrats  plenty,  "  Americans,"  rare, 
And  Republicans — well,  a  respectable  share; 
And  Election  will  bring  such  a  "squall,"  I  opine, 
As  the  Sun  did,  when  last  he  went  over  the  Line. 

But  perhaps  I  mistake,  for  no  prophet  am  I : 
Little  versed  in  the  "  Signs  of  the  Times,"  or  the  sky. 
The  heavens,  e'en  now,  may  be  clearing  somewhat, 
For  the  papers  all  say  that  "  Know-Nothings"  are  not  /. 
Most  too  good  to  be  true ;  but  we  '11  hope  for  the  best, 
And  after  Election  I  '11  send  you  the  rest, 
Unless  some  wire-worker,  by  chance  or  design, 
Shall  have  sent  it,  by  Telegraph,  over  the  Line. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  99 

'Tis  a  most  timely  place  for  the  News  of  the  day 

By  Oars,  Boat,  or  Telegraph — choose  your  own  way : 

And  business  transactions -can't  Jbe  very  slow, 

With  canal  boats  above-ground,  and  railroads  below. 

There  are  lawyers  to  spare,  and  some  men  with  "  the  Rocks ;" 

And  doctors  as  plenty,  at  least,  as  the  docks. 

Of  course  there  are  ladies,  to  put  on  the  shine, 

And  to  make  life  endurable  over  the  Line. 

It  is  hard  keeping  order  where  every  thing  floats, 

Yet  they  "lock  up"  the  rascals — as  well  as  the  boats. 

As  to  rogues,  I  should  risk  very  little  upon  't, 

Should  I  say  that  the  shrewdest  ones  come  from  Vermont! 

How  annoying  it  is  in  the  Green-Mountain  State, 

For  culprits  to  learn  both  to  labor  and  wait ! 

When,  to  shun  such  a  trial  of  patience — and  spine, 

They  have  only  to  travel  straight  over  the  Line. 

We  hear  much  beside  foreign  accents  and  curses, 
For  Saxe  has  been  round  with  his  loveliest  verses. 
"The  Hutchinsons,"  too,  with  mellifluous  throats, 
Have  saluted  our  ears  with  their  mellowest  notes : 
While  diverse  occasions  their  influence  lend, 
To  make  all  our  actions  toward  usefulness  tend, 

But  I  hasten  to  close,  by  subscribing,  in  fine, 

Your  obliged  Correspondent,  just  over  the  Line. 


TO  THE  NINTH  VERMONT  REGIMENT. 

JUXE,  1862. 

Again  is  heard  the  summons ! 
Once  more  our  country  calls 


100  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  men  of  noble  daring, 
Whose  hearts  no  fear  appalls. 

Again  floats  out  the  Banner 
With  LIBERTY  upon  't, 

And  to  the  rescue  rallies 

The  gallant  NINTH  VERMONT. 

Full  many  a  brave  Vermonter 

Is  in  the  field  to-day, 
Among  the  foremost,  waiting 

Impatient  for  the  fray. 
But,  while  there  still  is  needed 

Courage  without  alloy, 
How  fitting  is  the  summons — 

"Come  on  Green-Mountain  Boy !" 

From  many  a  quiet  village  • 

From  hill-side,  vale  and  glen  ; 
From  homes  whose  faithful  teachings 

O 

Make  earnest,  active  men  ; — 
There  comes  a  band  of  heroes, 

Of  firm  and  fearless  front ; 
Destined  to  deeds  of  valor — 

The  gallant  NINTH  VERMONT. 

Heed,  then,  your  country's  summons, 

With  hearts  as  stout  and  brave 
As  ever  beat  with  longings, 

A  nation's  life  to  save. 
Down  where  opposing  armies 

Are  marshalled  for  the  fight, 
Make  haste  to  do  fierce  battle 

For  Liberty  and  Eight. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  101 

Down  where  Potomac's  waters 

Are  red  with  brother's  blood ; 
Yea,  where  the  brave  Vermonters 

Faced  murderous  fire  and  flood  ! 
Prove  that  the  self-same  spirit 

Your  every  bosom  thrills, 
That  fired  that  band  of  martyrs — 

The  Heroes  of  Lee's  Mills. 

Show,  by  your  gallant  bearing, 

The  Mountains  whence  you  came  ; 
Amid  the  thickening  contest 

Call  Ethan  Allen's  name  ; 
And  then,  with  shout  terrific 

As  cannon's  stunning  noise, 
Sustain  the  ancient  glory 

Of  "  Brave  Green  Mountain  Boys  !  " 

Go  with  Cromwellian  purpose — 

To  fight,  and  think,  and  pray ; 
And  hasten  on  the  wished-for 

Emancipation -Day — 
Do  what  the  people  bid  you ; 

Do  what  the  hour  demands—' 
Dispense  swift  death  to  traitors, 

And  free  the  "  Contrabands." 

So  wage  this  righteous  conflict, 

That  Freedom  nevermore 
Need  fight  her  battles  over, 

More  bloody  than  before  ! 
Remove  the  cause  of  Treason — 

Say  to  the  Slave,  "  BE  FREE  !  " 


102  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  let  him  help  to  forward 
His  "Year  of  Jubilee." 

Resolve,  at  every  hazard, 

The  Union  to  maintain, 
Lest  all  our  Fathers'  efforts 

Shall  prove  to  be  in  vain  ; 
And  make  it,  still  more  glorious, 

From  all  oppression  free ; 
On  firm  and  sure  foundation — 

JUSTICE  and  LIBERTY. 

Dear  ones  at  home  are  praying, 

And  bidding  you  "God-speed!" 
Rejoiced  to  find  you  ready 

In  this,  the  hour  of  need. 
Then  onward  to  the  conflict  I 

Be  foremost  in  the  fight ; 
Strike  hard  for  Truth  and  Freedom, 

And  God  will  speed  the  Right. 


MISS  MARY  W.   RICE 

OF  GRANBY. 

WAITING. 

June,  laughing  June,  her  verdure  weaves 

About  her  flowery  way  ; 
And  lightly,  through  the  glancing  leaves, 

The  whispering  breezes  play. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  103 

Gently,  as  when  with  kisses  light, 

They  touched  the  forehead,  fair, 
Of  her,  who,  pale  and  lone  to-night, 

Is  sadly  waiting  there. 

Waiting — she  thinks  how  one  year  ago, 

When  the  Summer-day  grew  late, 
Her  Willie  bent  his  proud  head  low, 

And  kissed  her,  "  good-bye,"  at  the  gate. 

How  gaily  he  spoke,  as  he  turned  away, 

11  One  year  and  we  '11  meet  again ; 
One  little  year — you  '11  remember  the  day, 

And  I  know  you  '11  wait  for  me  then." 

One  little  year  !  and  waiting  now, 

While  the  Summer- day  grows  late  ,' 
The  soft  breeze  kisses  her  aching  brow, 

As  she  waits  for  him  at  the  gate. 

Watching  and  waiting  at  the  gate, 

Though  the  shadows  of  night  are  near  ; 

She  murmurs  oft,  u  it  is  getting  late, 
And  he  will  soon  be  here." 

Waiting,  poor  heart !  and  still  thou  may'st  wait, 

Till  the  shadows  of  death  are  near, 
Till  the  day  of  life  is  getting  late, 

But  he  will  not  be  here  : 

For,  lifeless,  on  a  trampled  plain 

He  lies,  whom  thou  dost  wait ; 
And  never  more  may  he  come  again, 

To  meet  thee  at  the  gate. 


104  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  we  will  hope,  on  a  blissful  plain, 
Beside  Heaven's  pearly  gate. 

Beyond  the  reach  of  death  and  pain, 
He  now  for  thee  doth  wait  ; 

And  that,  when  life  for  thee  is  o'er, 
And  thou  shalt  cease  to  wait, 

That  he,  upon  that  heavenly  shore, 
May  meet  thee  at  the  gate. 


THOUGHTS  OF  A  CONVALESCENT. 

I  thank  Thee,  O  God,  that  this  languid  eye 

May  look  once  more  on  the  pure  blue  sky  ! 

That  again,  with  rapture,  I  see  unrolled 

The  sunset's  page,  with  its  hues  of  gold  ; 

And  I  gaze  till  my  eyes  are  suffused  with  tears, 

At  the  memories  fond  of  earlier  years ; 

And  my  childhood  dreams  come  rushing  back, 

To  people,  in  fancy,  the  sunset's  track  ; 

Till  forms  of  glory,  and  spirits  bright, 

Seem  treading  those  halls  of  dazzling  light  ; 

And  I  fancy  the  sunset's  opened  gate, 

The  portal  of  Heaven,  where  angels  wait, 

And  listen  almost  to  catch  the  strains, 

Which  sweetly  float  o'er  those  blissful  plains. 

I  hear  again  the  rustle  of  leaves, 

On  the  dear,  familiar,  household  trees, 

Through  whose  branches  now,  as  in  childhood's  day, 

I  hear  the  whispering  breezes  play ; 

And^as  I  gaze  on  their  verdure  bright, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  1Q5 

Bathed  in  the  sunset's  rosy  light, 

A  feeling  of  rapture  is  at  my  heart, 

Which  the  beautiful  scene  alone  might  impart. 

Oh  !  I  envy  not  the  one  "whose  view 

Can  wander,  unmoved,  o'er  the  sky's  deep  blue  j 

Whose  eye  with  rapture  does  not  turn, 

Where  the  sunset's  fiery  embers  burn, 

And  without  deep,  ecstatic  thrill, 

Can  look  on  river,  field  and  hill; — 

Though  wealth  be  his,  and  fortune  pour, 

With  lavish  hand,  her  golden  store. 

And  not  unblest  that  life  must  be, 

Where  the  sunset's  glorious  imagery, 

The  bright  green  fields  and  laughing  sky 

Can  speak  to  the  heart,  through  the  raptured  eye  j 

For  rich  and  poor  their  share  may  hold, 

In  the  moon-beam's  silver  and  the  sunset's  gold. 

And  thanks  that  again,  o'er  the  fevered  brow, 

The  cool  soft  breeze  may  wander  now ; 

That  with  gentle  touch  of  fingers  fair, 

'Tis  playing  lightly  through  my  hair; 

And  its  cool,  soft  breath  is  on  my  face, 

Where  sickness  hath  left  its  living  trace. 

But  forgotten,  now,  those  weary  hours, 

Shut  in  from  the  fields  and  the  beautiful  flowers ; 

Forgotten  now  those  days  of  pain, 

For  I  look  on  the  bright  green  fields  again ; 

Forgotten  be  all,  for  my  languid  eye 

Hath  looked  once  more  on  the  pure  blue  sky. 


106  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  VOYAGE  OF  LIFE. 

Life  seems  a  gay,  delicious  dream 
To  childhood's  wandering  eyes ; 

A  gentle,  flowing,  flower-crowned  stream, 
On  which  its  vessel  lies. 

The  life-bark,  which  such  freight  doth  bear, 
Floats  on  its  surface  calm  and  still, 

All  furnished  with  a  mother's  care, 
And  guided  by  a  father's  skill. 

In  youth  the  river,  deeper  grown, 

Rushes  with  headlong  haste, 
O'er  threatening  sand-bar,  shoal  and  stone, 
Beneath  its  current  placed. 

But  firm  the  hand  that  grasps  the  helm ; 

Youth's  heart  can  know  no  fear ; 
The  dark  surge,  threatening  to  overwhelm, 

Is  music  in  his  ear. 

Hope's  meteor  light  is  beckoning  on, 

Her  siren  voice  he  hears, 
While  loud  above  the  raging  storm, 

Fame's  clarion  call  rings  clear. 

And  darker  now,  to  manhood's  view, 

The  rushing  torrent  seems  ; 
'Mid  riven-clouds;  oft  breaking  through 
The  vivid  light'ning  gleams. 

A  cloud  seems  resting  on  his  brow ; 
Fond  hopes  have  proved  untrue ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  107 

Fame's  dazzling  gifts  are  seeming,  now, 
Like  mirage,  to  his  view. 

A.ge's  shattered  bark  the  rushing  tide 

Seems  threatening  to  o'erwhelm  ; 
When,  lo  !  appears  the  heavenly  guide — 

An  angel  takes  the  helm. 

He  bids  the  weary  voyage  cease, 

Upon  life's  river,  dark ; 
And,  safely  to  his  Port  of  Peace, 

He  guides  the  shattered  bark. 


A  GLORIOUS  VICTORY. 

Flashed  through  the  land  on  wings  of  lightning, 

A  victory,  grand,  has  sped  ; 
Patriot  hearts  and  prospects  brightening, 

The  glorious  news  has  spread. 

Within  the  door  of  a  cottage  low, 

Where  the  clambering  woodbine  creeps, 

Sits  a  woman  pale,  while  in  her  arms 
A  smiling  infant  sleeps. 

And  at  her  feet  a  fair-haired  boy 

Prattles,  in  accents  sweet ; 
And  now  he  shouts,  with  childish  joy, 

As  he  looks  on  the  crowded  street, 

Where  a  ceaseless  tide  of  eager  feet 
Go  wildly  hurrying  past, 


108  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

While  echoes  far  the  drum's  wild  beat, 
And  the  bugle's  warlike  blast; 

A.nd,  wild  with  joy,  their  frenzied  shout 
Blends  with  the  cannon's  voice ; 

And  the  stars  and  stripes,  flung  proudly  out, 
Proclaim  to  all — Rejoice  ! 

Rejoice  !  for  another  field  is  ours, 

A  glorious  victory  's  won  5 
Another  blood-red  plain  baptized, 

With  deeds  of  valor  done. 

More  joyous  still,  o'er  vale  and  hill, 
Sounds  the  deep  cannon's  voice ; 

While,  waxing  loud  and  louder  still, 
Swells  the  glad  cry — Rejoice  ! 

And  the  boy  does  not  know,  as  he  turns  again 

On  the  street,  his  eager  eye, 
That  his  father  lies  dead  on  that  battle  plain , 

Beneath  the  Southern  sky. 

But,  with  gestures  of  pain,  the  mother  starts, 
And  turns  from  the  crowd  surging  near; 

As  the  joy,  welling  up  from  jubilant  hearts, 
Jars  sadly  on  her  ear. 

With  face  upturned  to  the  pitying  sky, 

She  sits  unheeding  there; 
While  still  that  wildly  echoing  cry 

Comes  on  the  evening  air. 

And  the  joyous  peals  of  the  merry  bells, 
With  their  stirring  music  come ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  1Q9 

The  bugle's  note  still  wilder  swells, 
And  the  rattling  roll  of  the  drum. 


TO  THINK  OF  SUMMERS  YET  TO  COME,  THAT 
I  AM  NOT  TO  SEE. 

I  look  on  the  fields  of  vivid  green — 

On  the  bright  and  laughing  skies, 
Where  a  beauteous  ever-varying  scene 

Is  unrolled  to  my  wondering  eyes ; 
And  still  I  turn  to  look  again, 

With  a  wonder  that  never  tires  5 
Till  a  feeling,  half  akin  to  pain, 

The  beautiful  scene  inspires. 

For  I  think — though  I  know  that  the  earth  again 

Shall  rejoice  in  the  Summer  bright, 
And  vale  and  mountain,  hill  and  plain 

Be  bathed  in  its  gorgeous  light — 
That  my  eye,  which  gazes  with  rapture  now, 

May  be  closed  in  death  ere  then, 
And  the  soft  June  breeze,  which  now  kisses  my  brow, 

I  never  may  feel  again. 

Oh  !  'tis  sad  to  think  how  our  dying  eyes 

Must  close  on  the  scenes  of  earth  5 
We  must  look,  for  the  last,  on  the  pure  blue  skies, 

And  the  beautiful  home  of  our  birth : 
Must  leave  that  home  where  our  childhood's  hours 

Have  been  passed  'mid  pleasures  sweet, 
And  the  path  we  have  loved,  among  the  flowers, 

To  be  trodden  by  other  feet. 


HO  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

— To  think  that  Springs,  as  fair  as  this, 

Shall  deck  the  earth  with  their  bloom, 
And  nature  revel,  in  Summer-bliss 

And  beauty,  around  the  tomb  ; 
That  as  glorious  as  now  shall  be  the  skies, 

And  the  sunshine  just  as  sweet ; 
And  the  bright  flowers  bloom,  although  our  eyes 

May  be  clothed  in  death's  deep  sleep. 

— To  think  how  our  seat  at  the  board  and  hearth 

Must  be  vacant  ever  more ; 
And  in  all  the  joyous  scenes  of  earth 

^Ve  must  mingle  never  more. 
And  oh  !  that  we  must  be  forgot, 

Or  remembered  only  as  dead ; 
The  places  that  know  us  shall  know  us  not, 

And  we  in  oblivion  be  laid. 

Sad  thoughts,  yet  not  for  these  alone, 

Do  we  so  shrink  from  death ; 
But  ah  !  the  thought  of  that  dread  unknown — 

That  "  Something  after  death  :" 
That  dark  abyss  which  death  conceals, 

The  future,  none  can  know, 
With  its  scenes  which  lie  all  unrevealed, 

Till  death  the  mystery  show. 

These  are  the  thoughts  that  blanch  the  cheek, 

And  fill  the  saddened  eye, 
That  to  the  heart  in  terror  speak, 

And  make  us  dread  to  die. 
And  as  I  muse,  more  bright  and  clear 

Seems  the  earth,  in  her  Summer  bloom; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  HI 

And  I  turn,  with  a  dark  and  shuddering  fear, 
From  the  thought  of  the  silent  tomb. 


THE  AWAKENING. 

Lingering  in  the  West,  the  day's 

Departing  glories  shone ; 
And  the  sunset's  holy  rays, 

In  softened  radiance  thrown, 
Resting  upon  the  swelling  mound, 

A  heavenly  beauty  shed 
O'er  all  that  consecrated  ground — 

The  "  City  of  the  Dead." 

I'd  left  my  weary  couch  of  pain — 

Of  cheerless  dark  despair, 
And  on  my  brow  I  felt,  again, 

Spring's  soft  reviving  air  ; 
Like  angel  hands,  with  healing  fraught, 

Upon  my  forehead  placed, 
From  my  poor  brain  each  wild,  dark  thought, 

Its  touch  seemed  to  erase. 

I  sought  the  place  my  childish  feet 

Had  often  sought  before ; 
The  evening  breeze  played,  softly  sweet, 

My  fevered  temples  o'er, 
Till  'neath  its  influence,  holy,  mild, 

That  dark  delirious  dream, 
In  all  its  gloomy  wanderings  wild, 

A  fearful  fancy  seemed. 


112  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

It  was  not  true — lie  was  not  dead  ! 

0  !  what  a  rapturous  thrill 
Of  deep,  almost  delirious,  joy, 

My  whole  existence  filled  ! 
I  felt  earth's  charms  must  fade  for  me, 

Could  he  not  in  them  share ; 
O,  were  it  so  ? — it  could  not  be ! 

Earth  could  not  be  so  fair ! 

No,  it  was  all  a  wild,  dark  dream, 

"Which,  through  those  months  of  pain, 

A  dread  reality  had  seemed 
To  my  delirious  brain. 

Glad,  grateful  tear-drops  rilled  my  eyes, 
Long  sealed  in  dark  despair. 

Which  now,  up  to  the  pure  blue  sky 

1  raised,  in  heart-felt  prayer. 

Within  its  radiant  depths  there  shone 

Joy's  deep,  resistless  tide  ; 
When,  as  by  chance,  it  rested  on 

A  new  grave  at  my  side. 
Then  a  wild,  low,  half-uttered  moan, 

And  a  shudder,  thrilled  my  frame — 
O  God !  upon  the  lettered  stone 

I  read  the  loved  one's  name. 

No  more — for  a  mist  and  a  deathly  pain 
Came  swimming  o'er  my  eyes, 

And  a  scene,  which  fired  my  maddened  brain, 
Before  me  seemed  to  rise. 

A  field,  all  drenched  with  human  gore — 
The  dashing,  murderous  steel — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  H3 

My  aching  sight  could  see  no  more, 
For  mind  and  reason  reeled. 

Then  as  the  sunset's  rosy  light 

Faded  from  the  glowing  west, 
Aiid,  in  the  holy  hush  of  night, 

All  nature  sank  to  rest. 
The  moon,  with  her  pale  and  holy  light, 

Came  slowly  up  the  skies ; 
And  myriad  stars,  on  the  brow  of  night, 

Gleamed  forth  like  angels'  eyes. 

But  the  shadows  which  fell  upon  my  heart, 

That  rayless,  hopeless  night, 
0,  its  gloomy  shade  will  never  part, 

Ne'er  yield  to  hope's  fair  light ; 
For,  whether  I  look  on  the  star-gem'd  sky, 

Or  the  sunset's  hues  of  gold, 
There's  ever  before  my  spirit's  eye, 

That  fearful  scene  unrolled. 

And  the  light  has  faded  from  the  earth, 

As  the  light  of  my  heart  went  out, 
And  darker,  now,  at  sound  of  mirth, 

The  mocking  laugh  and  shout. 
Upon  my  heart  is  the  shadow  thrown, 

"And  a  thrill  runs  through  my  brain," 
As  again,  upon  the  lettered  stone, 

I  seem  to  read  that  name. 


114  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

PELETIAH  PERKINS,  ESQ.— "MY  DARTER." 

You've  noticed  the  gal  that  sits  in  the  choir, 
At  our  meetin'-house,  Sundays,  just  in  front  of  the  Squire — 
Of  course,  for  she  looks  than  the  rest  so  much  smarter, 
You  could  'nt  have  failed — well,  that's  Sally,  my  darter. 

Her  cheeks  are -as  red  as  a  rosy  full-blown  ; 

And  her  teeth  just  the  whitest  that  ever  were  shown, 

And  her  hair,  like  the  boots  of  the  Parson,  doth  shine, — 

0  !  she's  handsome  and  smart — this  darter  of  mine. 

1  'm  not  quite  as  rich  as  I  'd  like,  to  be  sure, 

But  you  need  'nt  from  that  set  me  down  very  poor : 
To  be  sure,  all  we've  got  we've  scrabbled  hard  arter, 
But  there's  nothing  too  good  for  Sally,  our  darter. 

I  've  bought  her  a  watch,  and  a  couple  of  rings, 
A  hat  full  of  feathers,  and  lots  of  sich  things ; 
And  if  you  'd  believe  it,  why,  only  last  fall, 
I  sent  clear  to  Bosting,  to  get  her  a  shawl. 

I  sent  her,  three  terms,  to  the  village  high  skule, 

Where  she  learned  French,  and  music,  and  drawing,  by  rule . 

Then  I  bought  her  a  peanny,  richer  and  smarter 

Than  the  one  the  Deacon  has  got  for  his  darter. 

With  fingers  as  lively  as  wild  birds  in  June, 
She  plays  her  peanny,  and  rattles  a  tune ; 
No  wonder  the  fellers,  all  round  here,  are  arter 
My  Sally,  my  beautiful,  rosy -cheeked  darter. 

They  all  are  so  eager  to  hear  Sally  play, 
It  's  really  distressing  to  keep  them  away ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  115 

But  the  house  would  be  filled  till  midnight,  and  arter, 
If  I  did  n't  sit  up  for  the  good  of  my  darter, 

But  when  they  come  courtin'"!  'm  allers  on  hand, 
And,  vainly  enough,  any  secrets  are  planned ; 
For  one  of  us  allers  arrange  to  look  arter 
All  matters,  pertaining  to  Sally,  my  darter, 

And  when  there's  a  concert  or  spelling-skule  round, 
On  tip  toe  of  fix-up  the  gals  are  all  found ; 
But  of  the  young  men,  all  the  richer  and  smarter 
Are  sure  to  come  round  to  carry  my  darter. 

But  I  tell  you  they  all  might  as  well  keep  away, 
For  Sally  sha'  n't  gad  round,  by  night  or  by  day ; 
And  I  reckon  they  '11  learn,  it  's  no  easy  matter, 
For  ordinary  chaps  e'er  to  carry  my  darter, 

There  was  Sullivan  Smith,  the  Postmaster's  clerk, 
With  his  rat-tail  mustache,  and  dandy-like  smirk ; 
0,  he  swelled,  like  an  extrafied  dose  of  creamtarter— 
For  he  felt  pretty  sure  he  could  marry  my  darter. 

But  Jerusha  and  I  were  allers  around, 

And  all  his  fine  projects  fell  to  the  ground ; 

And  there  was  the  chap  that  called  his  name  Carter, 

And  as  handsome  a  feller  as  courted  my  darter. 

They  got  along  finely,  and  planned  up  one  night. 
To  run  off  and  get  married,  next  day,  before  light; 
But,  when  to  the  Parson's,  next  morning,  went  Carter, 
He  'd  got  my  old  woman,  instead  of  my  darter. 

There  was  Johnnie,  the  son  of  old  Deacon  Grimes — 
He  carne  to  see  Sally,  a  number  of  times ; 


116  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

There  aint,  to  be  sure,  a  feller  that  's  smarter, 

But,  still,  I  could  n't  think  of  his  marrying  my  darter. 

She  had  some  rich  offers — a  good  many,  you  see — • 
Pretty  flattering  ones,  too,  for  a  poor  man  like  me ; 
But  never,  for  gold,  would  I  willingly  barter, 
Like  a  piece  of  dry  goods,  dear  Sally,  my  darter. 

• 

But,  there  's  a  young  Captain,  now  stopping  in  town, 
At  home  on  a  furlough — I  think  from  a  wound  ; 
They  say,  in  the  army,  not  a  officer  's  smarter, 
And,  I  rather  expect,  he  '11  propose  for  my  darter. 

She  is  going  with  him  to  the  concert  to-night, 

You  know,  I,  of  course,  should  not  think  it  was  right, 

For  &  patriot,  like  me,  to  ever  say  "no," 

When  a  poor  wounded  soldier  asks  his  darter  to  go. 

And  Jerusha,  she  says,  when  an  officer  sues, 

It  would  'nt  be  right  in  us,  to  refuse ; 

And  though  nothing  besides  from  dear  Sally  should  part  her, 

For  our  country  she  'd  give  up,  even  our  darter. 


HALLOW  THIS  GRIEF. 

Thou  God  of  mercy  !  oh  !  to-night, 

Accept  the  plea, 
Which  from  these  lips,  with  anguish  white, 

I  raise  to  Thee. 

Thou  only  knowest  the  bitter  grief, 
Which  rends  my  heart — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  117 

And  Thou  alone  canst  give  relief — 
Oh !  then,  impart 

Unto  my  fainting  spirit  strength 

To  bear  the  blow ; 
And  grant  my  doubting  heart,  at  length, 

Thy  love  to  know. 

I  would*not  murmur  nor  repine; 

Be  this  my  prayer — 
Oh  !  make|Thy  holy  purpose  mine, 

And  let  me  share 

That  grace  Thou  only  canst  impart : 

More  than  relief 
I  ask,  Lord,  to  my  chastened  heart — 

"Hallow  this  grief!" 


THE  RIVER. 

Where  soft  flows  the  river, 

Just  down  by  my  door, 
And  the  shining  leaves  quiver 

Along  its  green  shore, 
I  catch  the  bright  shimmer 

Of  light,  through  the  leaves, 
As  the  sunset's  last  glimmer 

Falls  on  the  still  waves. 

And  all  through  the  hush 
Of  the  still  moon-lit  hour, 

The  river's  soft  rush 

Sounds  with  magical  power ; 


118  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

While  the  bright,  watching  stars — 
Night's  radiant  crown — 

To  its  clear,  sparkling  depths 
Look  lovingly  down. 

When  the  sun-god's  bright  ray 

Flames  down  on  its  banks, 
At  the  noon  of  the  day,  g 

Like  a  murmur  of  thanks, 
I  hear  the  glad  voice 

Of  its  musical  flow, 
As  it  seems  to  rejoice 

In  the  bright  Summer  glow. 

Though  Winter  may  bind  it 

In  his  still,  icy  chain, 
In  the  Spring-time  I  find  it 

The  same  friend  again; 
And  I  love  it  the  more, 

And  lonely  am  never, 
While,  down  by  my  door, 

Flows  the  bright,  sparkling  river. 


ADRIAN  TEMPLETOX  GORHAM 

OF  CASTLETON. 

WHEN  THE  SHIP  COMES  IN. 

A  maiden  dwells  by  the  flowing  sea, 
Where  the  dark  waves  revel  in  sounding  glee  ; 
And  foam-capped  breakers,  with  sullen  roar, 
Dash  madly  against  the  rock-bound  shore. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  119 

Oft,  on  a  towering  cliff  she  stands, 

Above  the  blue  waters  and  sparkling  sands, 

And  murmurs,  amid  the  wild  waves'  din  : 

"I  shall  see  him  again,  when" the  ship  comes  in  !" 

Sadly  her  eyes  wander  over  the  deep, 

Where  the  restless  billows  majestic'ly  sweep ; 

Often  the  loved,  one  doth  she  bewail, 

And  mingles  her  sighs  with  the  moaning  gale ; 

But  naught  of  the  proud  bark  can  she  espy — 

No  white  sail  gladdens  her  straining  eye; 

Yet  her  sweet  voice  murmurs,  'mid  Ocean's  din, 

"  I  shall  see  him  again,  when  the  ship  comes  in !" 

Oh  !  ill-starred  bark !  Oh  !  false — false  dream  ! 

No  more,  o'er  the  waves,  shall  her  white  wings  gleam , 

For  the  breath  of 'the  storm-king,  with  mighty  sweep, 

Hath  entombed  her  for  aye,  in  the  rolling  deep  ! 

The  mermaid  chanteth  her  siren  strain 

O'er  the  storm-wrecked  pride  of  the  deep  blue  main! 

And  the  foaming  waves,  with  unceasing  din, 

Moan  a  dirge  for  the  ship  that  shall  never  come  in  ! 

Oh,  lonely  watcher  !  thou  mindest  me 
Of  cherished  hopes  wrecked  on  Life's  dark  sea ! 
Bright-budding  pleasures,  that  scarcely  bloom 
Ere  they  wither,  and  sink  to  a  silent  tomb. 
And  long  we  gaze  o'er  the  troubled  main, 
And  sigh  for  their  welcome  return,  in  vain, 
While  the  waves  roll  onward,  with  ceaseless  din — 
Alas !  for  the  ships  that  shall  never  come  in  ! 


120  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  FLAG  OF  AMERICA. 

0,  Emblem  of  Union  !  O,  Symbol  of  Might ! 

0,  glory-crowned  Banner,  so  peerlessly  bright! 

'ATeath  thy  star-blazoned  folds,  conq'ring  hosts  of  the  free 

Vow  allegiance  only  to  God  and  to  thee  ! 

For  in  Him  is  their  trust,  and  in  thee  is  their  pride ; 

And  they  swear,  by  the  green  graves  of  heroes  that  died 

For  Freedom  and  Right,  thou  shalt  e'er  be  unfurled — 

O,  Flag  of  America — hope  of  the  world  ? 

0,  Emblem  of  Union  !  0,  Symbol  of  Might ! 

O,  Standard  of  Victory,  peerlessly  bfl£ht ! 

We  laud  thee,  we  bless  thee,  we  plant  thee  above 

Our  shrine  of  devotion,  the  land  of  our  love. 

All  hail,  victor -flag  !  of  Oppression  the  friend  ! 

True  hearts  shall  surround  thee,  strong  arms  shall  defend, 

And  bear  thee  forever,  in  glory  unfurled, 

O,  Flag  of  America — hope  of  the  world! 

O,  Emblem  ©f  Union !  0,  Symbol  of  Might ! 
O,  Star-crowned  Ensign,  so  peerlessly  bright ! 
Around  thee  the  soul-flame  of  Liberty  glows — 
We  Ve  a  hand  for  thy  friends,  and  a  blow  for  thy  foes ! 
By  the  graves  of  our  sires — by  their  victories  won, 
By  the  mem'ry,  immortal,  of  great  Washington, 
We  will  bear  thee  forever,  in  beauty  unfurled, 
0,  Flag  of  America — hope  of  the  world  ! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  121 

DRIFTED  AWAY. 

She  has  drifted  away  to  the  beautiful  shore — 

To  the  shadowless -homes  of  the  seraph-land; 
And  the  white  sails  flash,  when  her  bark  went  o'er, 

We  saw,  as  we  wept  by  the  shining  strand. 
Oh  !  our  thoughts  were  full  with  the  after  years, 

As  she  smiled  her  adieu,  o'er  the  dark  wave's  crest; 
And  our  eyes  drooped  downward,  'mid  silence  and  tears, 

As  she  drifted  away — away  to  her  rest. 

She  drifted  away,  ere  her  girlhood's  morn 

Wore  on  to  the  ripeness  of  blushful  day  ; 
Like  a  tender  violet,  rudely  shorn 

From  the  flower-crowned  scepter  of  rosy  May  ; 
E  re  her  pure  heart's  freshness  grew  sere  and  dim, 

Or  the  cherub  of  peace  ceased  to  gladden  her  breast, 
Ere  wild  Woe  chanted  Hope's  dying  hymn, 

She  drifted  away — away  to  her  rest. 

She  drifted  away,  when  Autumn  came 

With  gorgeous  pomp  of  crimson  and  gold — 
When  the  forests  were  lit  with  his  wings  of  flame, 

And  wandering  winds  blew  drear  and  cold; 
With  her  soft  eyes  bright  with  celestial  fires, 

And  meek  hands  folded  athwart  her  breast, 
To  the  wild,  sweet  music  of  angel  lyres, 

She  drifted  away — away  to  her  rest. 


I  WOULD  I  WERE  A  CHILD  AGAIK 

I  would  I  were  a  child  again, 
Amid  the  flow'rs  at  play, 


122  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

All  light  of  heart,  as  Summer  bird, 
Throughout  the  live-long  day  ; 

And  sweet 't  would  be  to  tread  the  fields 
Where  I  was  wont  to  roam, 

And  linger,  'neath  the  charm  that  clung 
Around  the  olden  home. 

The  bees  among  the  clover  hummed, 

The  flocks  grazed  on  the  lea, 
The  streamlet  sang,  along  the  vale, 

Its  rippling  melody  5 
And  care,  on  my  unruffled  brow, 

No  shadow  then  had  thrown, 
Nor  grief,  my  life  light  dimmed  with  tears, 

Or  hushed  youth's  merry  tone. 

I  'm  dreaming  of  that  quiet  cot, 

With  vine-clad,  rustic  door, 
By  branching  elms,  and  poplars  tall, 

So  softly  shadowed  o'er. 
I  hear  again  the  linnet's  song 

Come  floating  on  the  air, 
And  catch  the  perfume-laden  breath 

Of  roses,  fresh  and  fair. 

Ah  !  many  wintry  snows  have  fled, 

And  Summer  flowers  decayed, 
And  gentle  forms,  I  loved  of  yore, 

Are  in  the  church-yard  laid. 
Yet  oft  fond  mem'ry  turns  to  where 

Those  scenes  of  beauty  smiled, 
That  decked  with  bloom  life's  sunny  path, 

When  I  was  but  a  child. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  123 

LOST  LULU. 

The  cold  winds  blew  across  the  dreary  moor, 

And  storm-clouds  gathered  fast, 
As  Lulu  hastened  from  her  father's  door, 

And  braved  the  piercing  blast. 
So  young  and  fair,  a  fragile  flower  was  she — 

The  drunkard's  only  child ; 
Alas  !  that  one  of  tender  years  should  be 

Abroad,  in  night  so  wild. 

What  seeketh  she,  amid  the  deep'ning  gloom 

That  shrouds  her  trembling  form  ? 
Why  leave  the  cot — the  poor  but  sheltering  room — 

To  wander  in  the  storm  ? 
Ah,  well-a-day!  the  tale  is  ever  old — 

A  loved  one  fails  to  come  ; 
A  father's  hand  now  clasps  the  deadly  bowl, 

Far  from  the  light  of  home. 

Along  the  moor,  with  hurried  steps  she  flies, 

While  blinding  snow-flakes  fall ; 
She  gains  the  wood — no  well-known  voice  replies, 

Nor  heeds  her  feeble  call. 
Lost,  lost  in  snow  !  while  bleak  winds  madly  rave 

O'er  field  and  forest  dim — 
Hark  !  hear  her  prayer  :   "0  God,  my  father  save — 

His  child  now  dies  for  him  !' ' 

****** 
The  storm  had  ceased — the  winds  were  hushed  to  rest, 

And  morning's  golden*  glow 
Flamed  out  in  glory,  o'er  the  cold  earth's  breast, 

Bedecked  with  wreaths  of  snow  ; 


124  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

When  homeward  hieing,  thro'  the  forest  wild, 

The  stricken  father  found, 
Where,  tearless  now,  his  fond  and  faithful  child 

Lay  dead  upon  the  ground. 


GIRLS  OF  THE  GREEN-MOUNTAIN  STATE. 

Come,  fill  up  your  goblets  with  rich,  ruby  wine, 
Fill,  fill  to  the  brim,  with  the  nectar  divine  ! 
Let  the  bottle  pass  round  with  a  merry  clink-clink — 
I've  a  toast  to  propose,  which  we  '11  presently  drink. 
Well,  are  you  all  ready  ? — together,  then,  rise  : 
Here's  to  God's  best  and  dearest  gift  under  the  skies — 
Our  ladies  !  may  blessings  each  fair  one  await ! 
Here's  a  health  to  the  girls  of  the  Green-Mountain  State! 

They  are  lovely  as  morning's  first  orient  glow  5 

They  are  pure  as  the  snow-wreaths  on  Killing-ton's  brow  ; 

They  are  gentle  and  trusting,  kind-hearted  and  true, 

And  their  loyal  hearts  throb  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue  ! 

They  are  patterns  of  housekeepers — frugal  and  neat; 

Though  not  bred  in  the  cities,  their  bread  can't  be  beat ! 

That  pleasing  fact  I,  from  experience,  relate; 

So,  a  health  to  the  girls  of  the  Green-Mountain  State! 

"Ever  faithful  till  death  !"  is  our  fair  ladies'  creed; 
From  Love's  rosy  partners  they  will  never  secede ; 
Staunch  and  true,  by  the  Union  each  pretty  one  stands — 
The  union  of  hearts,  and  the  union  of  hands ! 
And  while  our  brave  boys  were  away  to  the  wars, 
Doing  battle  for  Freedom— the  Stripes  and  the  Stars — 


GREEN  MO.UNTAIN  POETS.  125 

Busy  hands,  for  their  comfort,  toiled  early  and  late ; 
Then,  a  health  to  the  girls  of  the  Green-Mountain  State  ! 

God  bless  them — co-laborers  in  Liberty's  cause  ; 
Ever  true  to  our  world-honored  Union  and  laws  ! 
God  shield  them  from  peril,  from  anguish  and  want — 
May  their  smiles  ever  gladden  the  homes  of  Vermont ! 
May  their  paths  be  illumined  by  Love's  holy  ray, 
And  their  life-wreaths  bloom  brighter,  as  years  wear  away. 
Our  ladies  !  choice  blessings  each  fair  one  await ; 
Hurrah  for  the  Girls  of  the  Green-Mountain  State  ! 


THE  KOBE'S  CONSOLATION. 

I  reclined  me,  at  noon,  'neath  the  wide-spreading  shade 
Of  a  stately  old  elm,  whose  branches  o'erhung 

The  streamlet  that  near  my  feet  merrily  played, 
And  sweetly,  above  me,  the  wild  birds  sung. 

I  had  culled  me  a  rose  from  a  favorite  bower, 

Where  brightly  it  blossomed,  in  queen-like  pride ; 

And  I  gazed,  with  delight,  on  the  beautiful  flower 
That  blushed,  like  the  cheeks  of  a  fair  young  bride. 

I  placed  it  near  to  my  throbbing  breast, 
Where  it  softly  emitted  a  crimson  glow ; 

And  methought  it  whispered  a  promise  of  rest 
That  soothed  my  sad  spirit,  oppressed  with  woe, 

In  accents,  soft,  as  the  gentle  strain 

Of  -ZEolian  lyre,  by  the  wind-god  played, 


126  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

It  breathed  sweet  peace  to  my  soul  again ; 
And  these  are  the  words,  methought,  it  said  : 

"  Frail,  trembling  mortal,  why  dost  thou  weep  ? 

Why  droopeth  thy  head  like  a  stricken  flower  ? 
Monrnest  thou  for  loved  ones  that  peacefully  sleep 

In  the  lone,  quiet  grave,  till  the  final  hour  ? 

"  Say,  have  the  best  treasures  of  thy  young  heart 

Been  spurned  from  the  shrine  where  thou  laid'st  them  low  ? 

Or  has  cruel  Slander's  malignant  dart 

Pierced  thee,  and  enshrouded  thy  spirit  with  woe  ? 

li  Perchance  fickle  Fortune  has  frowned  on  thee, 
And  withdrawn  the  light  of  her  golden  smiles. 

And  left  thee,  unfriended,  on  Life's  dark  sea, 
A  prey  to  the  pitiless  multitudes'  wiles  ? 

"  Whatever  the  cause  of  thy  anguish  may  be, 
Grieve  not,  but  aloft  turn  thy  sorrowful  eyes ! 

There  is  rest  in  high  Heaven  above  for  thee — 
A  home  for  the  weary,  beyond  the  skies. 

"  Oh,  weep  not !  despair  not — the  same  Hand  that  guides 
Creation's  vast  orbs  through  their  infinite  course, 

Alike  over  thee  and  the  frail  rose,  presides- — 
Of  mercy  the  boundless,  Omnipotent  source  !  " 

It  ceased  :  I  heard  the  sweet  voice  no  more  ; 

And  I  sprang  to  my  feet  with  a  sudden  start : 
Withered,  on  the  cold  earth,  lies  the  beautiful  flower 

But  its  silver-toned  accents  still  ring  in  my  heart. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  127 

FAIRY  LILLIE,  WITH  THE  BONNIE  BROWN 
E'E. 

Some  there  are  who  boast  of  treasures, 

Golden  ore  and  shining  gems, 
Bright  as  those  that  proudly  glitter 

In  monarchal  diadems — 
And  of  palaces,  whose  turrets  seem 

To  kiss  the  bending  skies ; 
Monuments  of  art  and  beauty  that 

In  lofty  grandeur  rise. 
But  for  all  of  these  I  care  not — 

Little  value  I  the  hoard 
Of  the  ever-anxious  miser,  or  the 

Haughty,  belted  lord; 
For  I  have  a  living  treasure,  and 

More  precious  far  to  me — 
'Tis  a  maiden,  Fairy  Lillie,  with  the 

Bonnie  brown  e'e, 

Oh !  her  smiles  to  me  are  brighter  than 

Glory's  honored  stars, 
Blazing  on  the  breasts  of  veterans,  heroes 

Of  victorious  wars ; 
And  her  eyes  outshine  the  diamonds 

Decking  beauty's  clustering  curls — 
She  's  the  dearest  of  the  maidens,  and 

The  best  of  brown-eyed  girls ! 
0,  had  I  a  little  cottage,  in  some 

Sweet,  secluded  place, 
A  dwelling,  where  my  blossom  might 

Bloom  in  its  native  grace — 


128  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

There,  surrounded  by  home's  pleasures,  I 

Should  ever  happy  be, 
In  the  love  of  Fairy  Lillie,  with  the 
Bonnie  brown  e'e. 

'T  was  on  one  bright  May  morning,  when 

The  ever-freshening  breeze, 
Joyous  skipped  along  the  hill-tops,  and 

Went  singing  through  the  trees, 
That  I  sat  beside  dear  Lillie,  and 

Whispered  something  low, 
That  surely  must  have  pleased  her, 

For  she  did  n't  answer  "no  !  " 
And  when  Summer  cometh,  like  a 

Young  bride,  crowned  with  flowers, 
And  the  song-birds  carol  gaily  through 

The  swiftly  flying  hours, 
I  shall  think  upon  a  promise,  once 

So  kindly  made  to  me, 
And  claim  my  Fairy  Lillie,  with  the 

Bonnie  brown  e'e. 


MISS  SUSIE  A.  SILSBY 

OF  WINDSOR. 


JOY  AND  SORROW. 


The  bright  angel  of  Joy  came  tripping  to  me, 
With  a  wreath  of  white  lilies  from  over  the  sea, 
And  a  golden  cup,  of  the  blessings  of  life, 
To  mingle  their  sweet  with  its  wearisome  strife. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  129 

Then  the  angel  of  Sorrow  came  gliding  to  me, 
With  a  shadowy  wreath  from  the  cypress  tree, 
And  the  cup  that  she-  brought  was  of  molten  lead, 
Filled,  e'en  to  the  brim,  with  the  tears  she  had  shed. 

And  they  bound  their  wreaths  together  with  care, 
And  twined  them  both  in  the  curls  of  my  hair, 
And  I  drink  from  each  cup,  as  they  silently  go 
So  close  by  my  side,  while  I  linger  below. 

But  when,  at  the  close  of  this  life,  I  shall  stand 
At  the  opening  gates  of  the  heavenly  land, 
I  will  tear  the  shadowy  wreath  from  my  brow, 
And  leave  but  the  lilies,  as  white  as  the  snow. 

Then  the  angel  of  Sorrow  will  turn  her  aside, 
For  Sorrow,  in  heaven,  could  never  abide, 
But  Joy  will  then  enter,  with  me,  to  the  rest, 
That  is  only  found  in  the  land  of  the  blest. 


JEPHTHA'S  VOW. 

Like  a  vision  of  beauty,  unfolded  to  light, 
Lay  the  fair  land  of  Gilead,  outspread  to  the  sight; 
•Broad  meadows  were  gleaming  in  sunshine  and  dew, 
And  the  heavens  above  them  were  cloudless  and  blue. 

The  birds  warbled  never  so  sweetly  as  then, 
And  the  flowers,  that  blossomed  in  forest  and  glen, 
Uplifted  their  dew-sprinkled  heads  from  the  sod,    ' 
And  sent  up  their  perfume,  as  incense,  to  God. 


130  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  zephyrs  were  telling  sweet  stories  of  love 
To  the  greenrobed  trees,  in  the  forest  and  grove, 
And  the  sun  beams  of  morning  were  dancing  in  glee, 
On  murmuring  river  and  billowy  sea. 

One  would  think,  amid  scenes  of  such  beauty  as  this, 
That  all  should  be  harmony,  union  and  bliss; 
But  vainly  we  dream  of  perfection  below, 
For  the  serpent  is  lurking,  wherever  we  go. 

On  forest,  and  meadow,  and  clear,  winding  brook, 
The  Ammonites  gazed  with  a  covetous  look ;  [stone, 

And  with  spears  that  were  flashing,  and  hearts  that  were 
They  invaded  that  fair  land,  to  make  it  their  own. 

The  Israelites,  wroth  at  invasion  so  bold, 

Uprose  to  the  combat,  in  numbers  untold, 

And  the  sound  of  contention  grew  loud  through  the  land, 

As  they  strove  to  expel  the  invading  band. 

But  the  Ammonites  speed  not  their  arrows  in  vain, 
For  the  turf  grows  red  with  the  blood  of  the  slain, 
And  the  air  grows  thick  with  the  spirits  that  rise, 
Through  the  wounds  of  the  fallen,  to  soar  to  the  skies. 

But  where  is  the  leader  of  Israel's  host? 
Is  he  false  to  his  trust,  when  they  need  him  the  most  ? 
Has  the  strong  heart  of  Jephtha  grown  timid  with  fear, 
That  he  bends  not  his  bow,  that  he  lifts  not  his  spear? 

He  kneels  on  the  ground,  with  his  hands  clasped  in  prayer, 
Unheeding  the  arrows  that  speed  through  the  air, 
Unheeding  the  spears  that  are  aimed  at  his  head, 
Or  the  ground  that  is  covered  with  wounded  and  dead. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  1 

There  's  a  look  of  resolve  on  his  uplifted  face, 
Forbidding  a  thought  that  is  linked  with  disgrace ; 
»And  the  light  in  his  eye  burneth  steady  and  clear, 
And  it  tells  of  a  spirit  untainted  by  fear. 

He  kneels  not  to  mortals,  he  sues  not  for  life, 

But  he  pleads  with  Jehovah  to  aid  in  the  strife, 

And  he  prays,  in  the  faith  that  his  prayers  will  be  heard, 

And  will  surely  be  answered  by  deed,  or  by  word. 

u  0  God  of  my  fathers,  and  hearer  of  prayer, 
Who  guardest  Thy  people  with  tenderest  care, 
Wherever  they  wander,  by  land  or  by  sea, 
Give  ear  to  Thy  servant,  who  kneeleth  to  Thee. 

"Thy  people  are  falling,  like  leaves  from  the  trees, 
And  the  sound  of  their  groaning  goes  up  on  the  breeze ; 

0  stretch  forth  Thy  hand,  which  is  mighty  to  save, 
And  lay  the  proud  Ammonites  low  in  the  grave. 

"  Let  them  go  not  from  battle,  in  triumph,  to  boast 
That  they  vanquished  the  leader  of  Israel's  host, 
But  let  death  be  their  portion,  and  victory  mine, 
And  a  sacrifice,  living  and  pure,  shall  be  Thine. 

"  When  the  land  of  my  fathers  once  more  shall  be  free, 
And  the  home  that  I  cherish,  in  triumph,  I  see, 
The  first  that  shall  meet  me,  with  welcoming  word, 

1  will  give  as  a  sacrifice  unto  the  Lord." 

He  rose  from  his  knees,  when  his  prayer  was  done, 
With  faith,  that  the  victory  soon  would  be  won ; 
And  he  lifted  his  spear,  with  his  arm  of  might, 
And  smote  the  proud  foes,  till  they  fled  in  affright;. 


132  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Over  Gilead's  meadows,  in  terror  they  speed, 
And  never  had  foeraen  such  terrible  need — 
For  the  Israelites  closely  their  footsteps  pursue  ; 
And  their  arrows  are  sharp,  and  their  aim  it  is  true. 

All  glowing  is  Jephtha,  with  victory  now, 

It  was  won  by  his  hand,  it  was  bought  by  his  vow ; 

But  he  dreams  not  what  sorrow  that  vow  wrought  for  him- 

It  will  fall  on  his  heart,  ere  his  laurels  grow  dim. 


Far  away  from  the  scene  of  contention  and  strife 
Were  the  lands,  and  the  palace,  of  Israel's  chief — 
The  breezes  touched  lightly  its  minarets  high, 
And  cool  were  the  streams  that  went  murmuring  by. 

The  fragrance  of  flowers  was  fresh  in  its  halls, 
And  the  palm,  and  the  sycamore  guarded  its  walls, 
And  the  spray  of  the  fountain,  like  gold  was  its  hue, 
In  the  beams  that  the  setting  sun  over  it  threw. 

But  the  light  of  that  palace,  its  glory  and  pride, 
Was  the  daughter  of  Jephtha,  who  seemed  to  preside 
O'er  its  peaceful  domains,  like  the  genii  of  old — 
Whose  touch  made*  each  object  new  beauties  unfold. 

Her  face  was  the  fairest  of  pictures,  I  ween, 

That  ever  in  hall,  or  in  palace,  was  seen ; 

And  her  voice  was  as  sweet  as  the  song  of  a  bird, 

When,  in  the  hush  of  the  twilight,  its  music  is  heard. 

She  knelt  at  the  lattice — her  form  half  concealed 

By  the  dark  hair  that  swept  to  the  floor,  as  she  kneeled, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  133 

And  eagerly  watched  for  her  father's  return, 
Glad  tidings  of  victory  hoping  to  learn. 

All  at  once  she  has  sprung  from  her  bended  knees, 

For  a  long  line  of  light  in  the  distance  she  sees — 

'Tis  the  army  of  Jephtha,  so  brightly  appears ; 

They  have  caught  the  last  rays  of  the  sun  on  their  spears. 

She  calls  to  her  maidens,  in  tones  that  are  fraught 
With  the  joy  that  her  heart  from  that  vision  has  caught: 
"  My  father  is  coming  !  the  battle  is  won  ! 
And  the  banners  of  Israel,  in  triumph,  are  borne  ! 

Let  us  go  forth  together,  the  victors  to  meet ; 

For  the  father  I  love  I  am  longing  to  greet, 

And  fain  would  I  kneel  at  his  feet,  as  of  yore, 

With  his  hand  on  my  forehead,  in  blessing  once  more." 

They  have  gone  from  the  palace — from  chamber  and  hall — 
And  the  daughter  of  Jephtha  is  foremost  of  all ; 
They  have  met,  with  proud  greetings,  the  conquering  band 
That  expelled  the  invaders  from  Israel's  land. 

There  was  joy  in  the  hearts  of  those  maidens  fair, 
And  their  voices  rose  clear  on  the  sweet-scented  air, 
As  they  sang  of  the  unfailing  goodness  of  God, 
And  the  uri-numbered  blessings  He  scatters  abroad. 

But  why  turns  the  cheek  of  their  leader  so  pale  ? 
Why  strikes  he  his  hand  on  his  bosom  of  mail  ? 
Why  turns  he  aside,  as  if  fearing  to  meet 
The  glance  of  the  daughter,  who  kneels  at  his  feet  ? 

Tis  his  only  child,  and  her  voice  and  her  smile 
Have  ever  had  power  his  heart  to  beguile ; 


134  GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  never,  till  now,  had  her  presence  brought  woe 
To  the  least  of  God's  creatures  that  dwelleth  below. 

He  must  nerve  his  own  voice  to  pronounce  her  doom, 
Though  it  shadows  his  future  in  sadness  and  gloom, 
For  a  gift  to  the  Lord  he  must  gather  his  rose, 
Though  the  world  has  few  like  it,  to  love  or  to  lose. 

He  raises  his  child  from  her  place  at  his  feet, 
And  tells  her,  in  tones  that  are  mournfully  sweet, 
How  the  battle  he  won  had  been  bought  by  his  vow — 
And  the  price  was  the  daughter  who  stands  by  him  now. 

The  tones  were  as  gentle,  the  words  were  as  mild, 

As  a  father  could  choose  for  an  only  child, 

Yet  they  fell  on  the  heart  of  the  maiden  like  stone, 

And  the  hopes  of  her  youth,  from  that  moment,  were  flown. 

All  the  dreams  of  the  future  that  fancy  could  weave, 
All  the  joy  earth  could  give,  or  a  mortal  receive, 
All  the  blessings  that  God  in  her  path  way  had  strewn, 
In  that  one  little  moment  forever  were  flown. 

Yet  no  word  of  complaint  to  her  father  reveals 
The  depth  of  the  anguish  her  crushed  spirit  feels ; 
Not  for  worlds  would  she  add  to  the  unspoken  grief 
That  is  breaking  the  proud  heart  of  Israel's  chief. 

She  kept  back  the  tears  that  she  dared  not  to  shed, 
And  clear  were  the  tones  of  her  voice  as  she  said — 
"  My  Father,  thy  strong  heart  should  bend  not  in  woe, 
But  rejoice  that  thy  country  is  freed  from  the  foe. 

"  Though  dark  is  the  future  that  waiteth  for  me, 
Yet  the  vow  of  my  father  unbroken  must  be ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  135 

My  love  for  the  world  shall  not  stand  in  the  way, 
When  the  good  of  our  country  forbids  me  to  stay. 

"  Let  me  go  with  my  maidens,  my  fate  to  bewail, 
Until  twice  the  moon  shall  have  waxed  and  grown  pale, 
And  then  shall  my  father  remember  his  word, 
And  my  voice  in  Gilead  no  more  shall  be  heard." 


The  years  rolled  along  just  the  same  as  before, 
Bringing  blessing  to  many,  and  sorrow  to  more, 
And  the  palm,  and  the  sycamore,  stately  and  old, 
Still  guarded  the  palace  like  sentinels  bold. 

The  sun  shone  as  brightly,  the  skies  were  as  clear, 
And  the  song  of  the  bird  was  as  joyous  to  hear, 
And  the  flowers  their  fragrance  unsparingly  shed, 
Just  the  same  as  they  did  in  the  years  that  were  fled. 

But  the  fragrance  was  wasted,  the  song  was  not  heard, 
For  a  sweeter  voice  than  the  voice  of  a  bird, 
That  once  had  re-echoed  through  garden  and  hall, 
Had  been  hushed  by  a  doom  that  no  power  could  recall. 

The  years  rolled  along,  with  their  unceasing  flow 

Of  sunshine  and  shadow,  of  pleasure  and  woe, 

Still  Jephtha  was  judge  over  Israel's  land, 

With  the  wisdom  to  rule,  and  the  power  to  command. 

His  wisdom  and  valor  had  won  him  a  name, 
And  the  broad  land  of  Gilead  echoed  his  fame  ; 
But  fame  had  no  power  to  restore  to  his  side 
The  daughter  that  once  was  his  joy  and  his  pride. 


136  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

With  a  void  in  his  heart  that  the  world  could  not  fill ; 
With  a  cloud  on  his  brow  that  would  linger  there  still 
With  a  glance  in  his  eye  that  was  mournful  to  meet, 
He  trod  the  rough  path  with  unfaltering  feet. 

The  years  rolled  along  until  six  had  passed  by, 

And  the  ruler  of  Israel  laid  down  to  die  ; 

No  daughter  was  near  to  receive  his  last  breath, 

Or  to  wipe  from  his  forehead  the  cold  dews  of  death. 

His  labors,  his  triumphs,  his  sorrows  were  o'er, 
And,  't  is  pleasant  to  fancy  him  meeting  once  more 
In  a  happier  home,  in  a  holier  sphere, 
The  daughter  his  vow  had  deprived  him  of  here. 


"CAST  THY  BREAD  UPON  THE  WATERS. 

Coldly  swept  the  winds  of  winter, 

Coldly  sifted  down  the  snow, 
Sifted  down  against  the  windows 

Of  a  farm-house,  brown  and  low. 
All  within  was  warmth  and  brightness, 

From  the  broad  old  fire-place  cast, 
All  without  was  cold  and  darkness, 

As  the  winds  went  howling  past. 
Inside,  where  the  blaze  shone  brightest, 

In  a  quaint  old  rocking  chair, 
Sat  a  fair-faced  woman  knitting, 

With  an  absent,  dreamy  air ; 
Near  her  sat  the  farmer,  nodding, 

With  his  eyes  in  slumber  sealed, 
Dreaming  of  his  fertile  acres, 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  137 

And  the  wealth  they  yet  would  yield. 
Outside,  in  the  gathering  darkness, 

Was  a  struggling  human  form, 
And  his  torn,  wind-shaken  garments, 

Could  not  shield  him  from  the  storm — 
And  the  woman  by  the  fireside 

Heard  a  footstep  in  the  snow, 
Heard  a  fall  upon  the  threshold, 

And  a  mourning  sound  of  woe ; 
And  she  woke  the  sleeping  farmer, 

From  his  dreams  of  worldly  gain, 
Woke  him  quickly,  as  if  fearing 

She  should  hear  the  sounds  again. 
And  they  swung  the  door  wide  open, 

And  the  snow  came  sifting  in, 
While  a  stranger  lay  before  them 

Clad  in  raiment  old  and  thin. 
Tenderly  the  farmer  raised  him 

From  the  snow-drift  at  the  door, 
Lifted  him  across  the  threshold, 

Laid  him  on  the  kitchen  floor, 
Where  the  fire-light  shone  and  flickered 

On  his  young,  but  bloated  face  ; 
For  intemperance,  on  each  feature, 

Plain  had  left  its  fearful  trace. 
And  the  farmer,  looking  downward 

At  his  face,  in  harsh  disdain, 
Seeing  he  was  drunk  and  bloated, 

Would  have  thrust  him  forth  again ; 
But  the  gentle,  fair-faced  woman, 

Kneeling  down  beside  him  there, 
Chafed  his  hands,  and  bathed  his  temples, 


138  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

With  a  tender,  thoughtful  care. 
"  John" — she  whispered  to  her  husband — 

"  This  poor  boy  is  young,  you  see  ; 
Scarcely  older  than  our  Charlie, 

If  alive,  to-day,  would  be. 
Somewhere  mourns  a  mother  for  him, 
As  he  treads  the  downward  path — 
Or,  in  angel  choir,  is  watching, 
More  in  pity  than  in  wrath. 
Prayers  of  sisters  may  be  rising 

Upward  to  the  throne  of  God ; 
Or  a  father's  hopes  be  falling, 

Crushed  and  broken,  to  the  sod. 
In  his  heart  there  still  may  linger 

Hidden  gems  of  future  good — 
Ours  may  be  the  task  to  bring  them 

Through  the  surface,  rough  and  rude. 
So  they  watched  beside  him  kindly, 
'Till  he  woke,  with  fevered  brow ; 
And  the  voice,  that  had  been  silent, 

Spoke  in  wild  delirium  now. 
Ere  the  burning  fever  left  him, 
Many  days  had  passed  away  ; 
And  the  farmer's  wife  had  watched  him 

With  a  tender  care,  each  day ; 
'Till  her  cheeks  grew  pale  and  faded, 

While  to  his  the  bloom  returned, 
And,  before  the  fever  left  him, 

Many  a  lesson  he  had  learned. 
Earnest  prayers  her  lips  had  offered 

For  that  young  and  erring  one, 
Kneeling  by  his  bed-side,  nightly, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  139 

When  the  busy  day  was  done : 
Prayed  she  for  the  absent  mother, 

Who  was  mourning  him  as  lost, 
For  the  tears  and  for  the  heart-aches 

That  his  wasted  life  had  cost — 
For  his  father's  hopes,  so  blighted  ! 

Of  a  son,  to  manhood  grown, 
Who,  in  life's  unceasing  contest, 

Should  have  won  a  laurel  crown ; 
For  his  wasted  youth  and  vigor, 

And  his  weak,  misguided  mind — 
For  the  talents  that  seemed  given 

But  to  lose  in  errors  blind ; 
'Till  his  stubborn  heart  had  melted 

With  a  sense  of  guilt  and  shame, 
And  the  tears  of  true  repentance 

From  his  eyelids  slowly  came. 
Slowly  back  came  health  and  vigor, 

Health  of  body  and  of  mind, 
And  the  shackles  of  intemperance 

Never  more  his  soul  could  bind. 
With  a  fervent,  prayerful  blessing 

From  the  farmer  and  his  wife, 
Went  he  forth,  prepared  and  strengthened 

To  redeem  his  wasted  life. 

Many  years  brought  many  changes  ; 

For  the  farmer's  hair  turned  grey ; 
And  his  wife,  with  failing  eyesight, 

Laid  the  knitting-work  away. 
And  misfortune  had  been  busy, 

While  they  had  been  growing  old, 


140  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  the  crops  had  all  been  blighted, 
And  the  old  farm-house  was  sold  ; 
And,  within  the  alrnshouse  shelter, 
They  had  sought  a  place  to  die, 
Little  knowing,  little  dreaming, 

That  a  helping  hand  was  nigh  : 
For,  one  day,  a  stalwart  stranger 

Paused  before  the  almshouse  door, 
Asking  for  the  good  old  farmer 

He  had  known,  in  days  of  yore. 
Near  the  window  sat  the  farmer, 

With  his  bible  opened  wide, 
Beading,  from  its  time-worn  pages, 

To  the  old  wife  by  his  side ; 
Reading  how  the  good  Lord  careth 

For  the  great  and  for  the  small, 
For  a  mighty  nation's  progress, 

Or  a  tiny  sparrow's  fall. 
And  the  good  wife  sat  and  listened 

With  a  quiet,  peaceful  air — 
With  a  tender,  sweet  expression, 

Though  no  longer  young  and  fair. 
Stood  the  stranger  in  the  door-way, 

Looked  the  farmer  in  surprise, 
And  the  woman,  toward  the  footstep, 

Vainly  turned  her  sightless  eyes. 
Then  the  stranger  knelt  beside  her, 
Told  her  how,  long  years  before, 
They  had  found  him  in  a  snow-drift, 
Just  before  the  farm-house  door ; 
How  they  prayed  for  him,  and  watched  him, 
When  the  fever  laid  him  low  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  141 

How  they  blessed  him,  when  he  left  them, 

Out  into  the  world  to  go ; 
How,  since  then,  his- life  had  prospered, 

Even  more  than  he  could  ask; 
And  he  had  not  yet  forgotten 

They  had  nerved  him  for  the  task. 
He  had  come  to  see,  and  beg  them 

In  his  heart  and  home  to  share, 
Till,  within  the  church-yard's  shadow, 

They  should  rest  from  earthly  care. 
It  should  be  his  chiefest  pleasure 

To  supply  their  every  need ; 
He  would  love  to  bear  their  burdens, 

And  their  every  wish  to  heed. 
Then  the  aged  couple,  weeping, 

Scarce  could  answer  him,  for  joy, 
But,  again,  they  fondly  blessed  him, 

As  they  did  when  but  a  boy. 
Kindly,  blindly,  on  the  waters 

They  had  cast  their  bread  away, 
God  had  sent  it  back  to  feed  them 

Now  that  they  were  old  and  gray. 
Ye,  whom  fortune  kindly  favors, 

Take  the  lesson  to  your  hearts — 
Learn,  in  all  life's  varied  contests, 

Bravely,  still,  to  bear  your  parts. 
Let  your  careless  eyes  be  opened 

To  the  work  upon  you  laid, 
Till  you  see  the  world  around  you 

Has  a  right  to  claim  your  aid. 
There  are  many  sinking  downward 

In  the  depths  of  sin  and  crime — 


142  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Your  hands  yet  may  draw  them  upward, 

If  you  reach  them  out  in  time. 
On  the  verge  of  good  and  evil 

Many  stand,  in  trembling  doubt — 
Yours  may  be  the  task  to  tell  them 

Which  is  best,  and  safest  route. 
Some  are  drooping,  under  burdens 

That  yourselves  have  never  known — 
Stand  not  back,  in  selfish  coldness — 

They  must  bear  them  not  alone. 
Some  are  reaching  for  the  prizes 

That  they  scarce  can  think  to  gain — 
Lend  your  hands  and  hearts  to  help  them, 

Till  their  path  grows  smooth  and  plain : 
Do  the  work  that  lies  before  you, 

Shrink  not,  though  it  seemeth  rough ; 
It  will  smother  you  with  blessings, 

Till  your  souls  cry  out — "  enough  !" 
"  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters  " — 

Waves  will  bring  it  back  again ; 
God  will  add  a  blessing  to  it, 

That  will  evermore  remain. 
There  are  stricken  hearts  to  comfort ; 

There  are  starving  minds  to  feed ; 
There  are  sin-stained  souls  to  rescue, 
And  the  cause  of  right  to  plead. 
There  are  all  earth's  weary  pilgrims, 

That,  along  our  way,  we  meet — 
Pluck  the  thorns  from  off  the  roses 

That  you  drop  before  their  feet. 
Hold  the  clouds  from  off  their  pathway, 

Let  the  cheering  sun-light  through; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  143 

Shake  the  boughs  that  bend  above  them, 

Bringing  down  the  cooling  dew. 
Deeds  like  these  wirl  bring  you  blessings, 

Greater  than  you  dream  or  know — 
Blessings  numberless  and  priceless  ; 

Though  you  may  not  reap  them  now. 
"  Cast  thy  bread  upon  the  waters," 

Though  beyond  you  it  be  driven, 
Though,  on  earth,  you  seem  to  lose  it, 

You  will  find  it  safe  in  Heaven. 
One  by  one  the  years  are  passing 

From  our  tightening  clasp  away  ; 
We  may  reach  our  hands  out  toward  them, 

But  we  cannot  make  them  stay. 
We  may  call,  with  eager  voices, 

Till  our  hearts  are  filled  with  pain — 
With  the  pain  of  fervent  longing — 

But  they  will  not  come  again. 
Other  years  are  dawning  for  us, 

With  a  newer,  clearer  light — 
Laden  with  a  richer  promise, 

Telling  of  a  star-crowned  night. 
Life's  stern  duties  wait  performance — 

Mercy's  claims  must  be  fulfilled ; 
And  our  dormant  souls  must  waken, 

And  our  idle  dreams  be  stilled. 
Sometime,  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 

We  will  lay  our  burdens  down, 
And  will  ask  the  angels  near  us 

For  a  never-fading  crown. 


144  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  TOETS. 

JOHN    GODFREY    SAXE,    A.  M., 

OF    ALBANY,    N.   Y. — FORMERLY    OF   BURLINGTON,   VT. 

[The  following  pieces  were  taken  from  "The  Masquerade,"  by  permission  of  the 
•author.     The  Masquerade  is  published  by  Ticknor  &  Fields,  Boston,  Mass.] 

THE  STOEY  OF  LIFE. 

Say,  what  is  life  ?     'Tis  to  be  born ; 

A  helpless  Babe,  to  greet  the  light 
With  a  sharp  wail — as  if  the  morn 

Foretold  a  cloudy  noon  and  night ; 
To  weep,  to  sleep,  and  weep  again, 
With  sunny  smiles  between ;  and  then  ? 

And  then,  apace,  the  infant  grows 

To  be  a  laughing,  puling  boy ; 
Happy,  despite  his  little  woes, 

Were  he  but  conscious  of  his  joy; 
To  be,  in  short,  from  two  to  ten, 
A  merry,  moody  Child;  and  then? 

And  then,  in  coat  and  trousers  clad, 

To  learn  to  say  the  Decalogue, 
And  break  it ;   an  unthinking  Lad; 

With  mirth  and  mischief  all  agog; 
A  truant,  oft,  by  field  arid  fen, 
To  capture  butterflies  ;  and  then  ? 

And  then,  increased  in  strength  and  size, 

To  be,  anon,  a  Youth  full-grown; 
A  hero,  in  his  mother's  eyes — 

A  young  Apollo,  in  his  own; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  145 

To  imitate  the  ways  of  men, 
In  fashionable  sins ;  and  then  ? 

And  then,  at  last,  to  be  a  man ; 

To  fall  in  love ;  to  woo  and  wed ; 
With  seething  brain  to  scheme  and  plan  ; 

To  gather  gold,  or  toil  for  bread ; 
To  sue  for  fame,  with  tongue  or  pen, 
And  gain  or  lose  the  prize  ;  and  then  ? 

And  then,  in  gray  and  wrinkled  Eld, 
To  mourn  the  speed  of  life's  decline ; 

To  praise  the  scenes  his  youth  beheld, 
And  dwell  in  memory  of  Lang-Syne  ; 

To  dream  awhile,  with  darkened  ken, 

And  drop  into  his  grave ;  and  then  ? 


THE  GIFTS  OF  THE  GODS. 

The  saying  is  wise,  though  it  sounds  like  a  jest, 

That  "  The  gods  don't  allow  us  to  be  in  their  debt," 

For  though  we  may  think  we  are  specially  blest, 
We  are  certain  to  pay  for  the  favors  we  get ! 

Are  Riches  the  boon  ?  Nay,  be  not  elate ; 

The  final  account  is  n't  settled  as  yet ; 
Old  Care  has  a  mortgage  on  every  estate — 

And  that's  what  you  pay  for  the  wealth  that  you  get ! 

Is  Honor  the  prize  ?  It  were  easy  to  name 
What  sorrows  and  perils  her  pathway  beset ; 

Grim  Hate  and  Detraction  accompany  Fame — 
And  that's  what  you  pay  for  the  honor  you  get ! 


146  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Is  learning  a  treasure  ?  How  charming  the  pair, 
When  Talent  and  Culture  are  lovingly  met; 

But  Labor,  unceasing,  is  grievous  to  bear — 

And  that's  what  you  pay  for  the  learning  you  get ! 

Is  Genius  worth  having?  There  is  n't  a  doubt; 

And  yet,  what  a  price  on  the  blessing  is  set — 
To  suffer  more  with  it  than  dunces  without; 

For  that 's  what  you  pay  for  the  genius  you  get ! 

Is  Beauty  a  blessing  ?  To  have  it  for  naught, 
The  gods  never  grant  to  their  veriest  pet ; 

Pale  Envy  reminds  you  the  jewel  is  bought — 

And  that 's  what  you  pay  for  the  beauty  you  get  ! 

But  Pleasure  ?  Alas  !  how  prolific  of  pain  ! 

Gay  Pleasure  is  followed  by  gloomy  Regret ; 
And  often  Repentance  is  one  of  her  train — 

And  that 's  what  you  pay  for  the  pleasure  you  get ! 

But,  surely,  in  Friendship  we  all  may  secure 
An  excellent  gift;  never  doubt  it, — and  yet, 

With  much  to  enjoy,  there  is  much  to  endure  ; 

And  that 's  what  we  pay  for  the  friendship  we  get ! 

But  then  there  is  Love  ? — Nay,  speak  not  too  soon  ; 

The  fondest  of  hearts  may  have  reason  to  fret; 
For  Fear  and  Bereavement  attend  on  the  boon — 

And  that 's  what  we  pay  for  the  love  that  we  get ! 

And  thus  it  appears — though  it  sounds  like  a  jest — 
The  gods  do  n't  allow  us  to  be  in  their  debt; 

And,  though  we  may  think  we  are  specially  blest, 
We  are  certain  to  pay  for  whatever  we  get ! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  147 

THE  HUNTER  AND  THE  MILKMAID. 

(Imitated  from  Beranger's  "Le  Chasseur  et  la  Laitiere.") 


The  lark  is  singing  her  matin  lay ; 
0  come  with  me,  fair  maiden,  I  pray ; 
Sweet,  0  sweet  is  the  morning  hour, 
And  sweeter  still  is  yon  ivied  bower  ; 
Wreaths  of  roses  I  '11  twine  for  thee, 

0  come,  fair  maiden,  along  with  me  ! 

Ah  !  Sir  Hunter,  my  mother  is  near, 
I  really  must  n't  be  loitering  here  ! 

n. 

Thy  mother,  fair  maiden,  is  far  away, 
And  never  will  listen  a  word  we  say; 

1  '11  sing  thee  a  song  that  ladies  sing 
In  royal  castles,  to  please  the  king  ; 

A  wondrous  song,  whose  magical  charm. 
Will  keep  the  singer  from  every  harm. 

Fie !  Sir  Hunter — a  fig  for  your  song; 

Good-by — for  I  must  be  going  along  ! 

ni. 

Ah  !  well, — if  singing  will  not  prevail, 
I  '11  tell  thee,  then,  a  terrible  tale ; 
'Tis  all  about  a  Baron  so  bold, — 
Huge,  and  swart,  and  ugly,  and  old, 
Who  saw  the  ghost  of  his  murdered  wife ; 
A  pleasant  story,  upon  my  life  ! 

Ah  !  Sir  Hunter,  the  story  is  flat, 
/  know  one  worth  a  dozen  of  that. 


148  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

IV. 

I  '11  teach  thee,  then,  a  curious  prayer 
Of  wondrous  power,  the  wolf  to  scare, 
And  frighten  the  witch,  that  hovers  nigh 
To  blight  the  young,  with  her  evil  eye ; 
0  guard,  fair  maiden,  thy  heauty  well — 
A  fearful  thing  is  her  wicked  spell ! 

O,  I  can  read  my  missal,  you  know ; 

Good  by  !  Sir  Hunter — for  I  must  go! 

v. 

.Nay,  tarry  a  moment,  my  charming  girl ; 

Here  is  a  jewel  of  gold  and  pearl ; 

A  beautiful  cross  it  is,  I  ween, 

As  ever  on  beauty's  breast  was  seen  ; 

There's  nothing  at  all  but  love  to  pay ; 

Take  it,  and  wear  it,  but  only  stay ! 

Ah  !  Sir  Hunter,  what  excellent  taste  ! 

/ '/»  not  -  in  such — particular — haste. 


Stoddard  B.  Colby  was  born  in  Derby,  Vt.,  in  January,  1815 — 
graduated  at  Dartmouth  College,  in  the  class  of  1836;  and  studied 
law  in  the  office  of  the  late  William  Upham.  He  was  admitted  to 
the  bar  in  1838,  and  practiced  his  profession  at  Derby,  until 
1846 — when  he  removed  to  Montpelier,  and  became  a  partner  with 
J.  S.  Peck. 

He  attended  County  and  Supreme  Courts  in  Washington,  Cale 
donia,  Orleans,  Lamoille,  Chittenden  and  Orange  counties,  and 
also  in  other  counties  of  the  State,  as  counsel  in  important  suits. 
He  was  considered  one  of  the  best  lawyers  in  the  State.  His  re- 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  149 

fined  taste,  graceful  wit  and  eloquence  at  the  bar,  are  known  to  all. 
In  1864  he  was  appointed  Register  of  the  United  States  Treasury. 
We  recollect  the  beautiful  morning  when  we  wended  our  way  to 
the  Treasury  building,  and  saw  Mr.  Colby  take  the  oath  of  office. 
His  toilet  had  been  carefully  adjusted,  and  with  his  beautiful 
features  and  sparkling  eyes,  he  seemed  more  beautiful  than  ever 
before. 

During  his  stay  in  Washington,  his  health  became  impaired  by 
bilious  derangement  and  diarrhoea,  and  he  died  at  Haverhill,  N . 
H.,  Sept.  21,  1867. 

BURNING  OF  THE  ERIE. 

[The  following  poem  was  written  by  Mr.  Colby  on  the  death  of  his  classmate, 
David  Scott  Sloan.  Mr.  Sloan  perished  in  the  ill-fated  steamer  "  Erie,"  while  , 
on  his  way  to  Geneva  College,  where  he  was  engaged  as  a  teacher.  Every  passen  ' 
ger,  and  all  of  the  crew,  perished  in  the  flames.  The  first  Mrs.  Colby  lost  her 
life  in  a  similar  manner,  in  the  "Henry  Clay,"  which  was  burned  on  the 
North  River  some  years  afterwards ;  and  these  lines  were  re-published  on  that 
occasion.] 

She  sails  to-night — that  gallant  bark 

How  proudly  greets  the  air, 
Oh,  bear  thee  well,  bold,  daring  ark, 

Rich  gems  are  periled  there. 

High  hopes,  fond  prayers,  surround  thy  brow ; 

Heed  well  the  parting  tear — 
Glad  homes,  gay  hearts  are  saddened  now ; 

How  full  of  truth  is  fear. 

What  cherished  ones  are  there  enrolled — 

Loye's  freshest,  greenest  spring, 
Whose  tendrils,  twined  through  half  the  world, 

Around  that  frail  boat  cling. 

Scarce  faded  from  the  anxious  sight, 
Eclio  the  last  "  God  speed"  returns, 


150  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.    - 

A  flash,  a  flame,  gleams  on  the  night, 
Oh,  Heaven  !  the  Erie  burns  ! 

Ah  !  virtue,  talent,  beauty,  worth, 

Must  ye  all  perish  there  ? 
Look  now  aloft,  trust  not  in  earth — 

Its  hopes  but  mock  your  care. 

They  're  lost,  they  're  gone — Great  God,  defend 

The  bleeding,  bursting  heart  ; 
Thine  only  is  the  power  to  send 

Thy  grace  that  bids  despair  depart. 

We  leave  the  wreck ;  but  shall  we  trace 

The  march  of  this  dread  blow  ? 
Mark  crushed  affection's  pallid  face, 

Where  tears  unbidden  flow. 

Her  story  flies,  day  after  day — 

The  Erie's  ruthless  fate  ! 
Tie  after  tie  is  burst  away, 

And  homes  and  hearts  are  desolate. 

But  enter  not  grief's  solitude, 

It  seeks  not  sympathy; 
There  is  no  heart  or  hand  so  rude, 

Can  paint  its  agony. 

Must  I,  too,  for  that  offering  lend 

A  treasured  sacrifice? 
My  generous,  virtuous,  manly  friend 

With  Erie's  dead  now  lies  ! 

Friend  of  my  youth  !  I  see  thee,  now, 
On  that  stern  funeral  pile; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  '  151 

Calm  resignation  on  thy  brow, 
Betokening  Heaven's  smile. 

Ah,  Sloan  !  we  thought  not  thus  to  part, 

When,  from  our  college  home, 
We  rushed  on  fortune's  busy  mart, 

Eager  for  fortune's  doom. 

Classmates  !  our  brother's  course  is  run  ; 

That  spirit,  noble,  rare — 
The  battle  fought,  the  victory  won — 

Has  found  a  Life-Boat  there. 


REV.  ASA  DODGE  SMITH,  D.  D.,  LL.  D., 

Was  born  in  Amherst,  N.  H.,  but  went  to  Vermont  when  nine 
years  of  age,  and  lived  in  Weston  and  Windsor.  He  has  for  sev 
eral  years  been  President  of  Dartmouth  College,  at  Hanover,  N.  H. 

TO  MOUNT  ASCUTNEY. 

Fair  mount,  in  sharpest  outline  showing, 
Athwart  the  clear,  blue,  wint'ry  sky, 
As  long  I  gaze,  with  moistened  eye, 

How  weird  the  fancies  thickly  growing, 
What  scenes,  long  past,  are  flitting  by  ! 

Again,  with  childhood's  ken  I'm  marking 
Thy  star-crowned  peak,  thy  evergreen, 
Thy  summer  garb,  thy  snowy  sheen ; 

Again,  with  childhood's  ears  I  'm  harking 
To  winds  that  rise  thy  cliffs  atween. 


152  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Again — a  college  boy — I  'm  glancing 
Adown  the  vale  thou  watchest  well ; 
Old  hopes  anew  my  bosom  swell — 

Fair  castles,  airy,  re-advancing, 
Called  up  as  by  the  olden  spell. 

Bat  how,  like  mists  that  morning  brought  thee, 
Those  baseless  fabrics  vanished  soon  ; 

And  now,  at  manhood's  sober  noon, 
The  golden  lesson  thou  hast  taught  me, 

I  deem  a  truer,  richer  boon. 

Old  friends  are  in  the  valley  sleeping, 
That  by  me  stood  to  look  on  thee ; 
And  youthful  years,  how  swift  they  flee  : 

Her  solemn  ward  is  memory  keeping 
O'er  things  that  were — but  may  not  be. 

But  thou,  symbolic,  still  uprising, 
Speakest  of  good  that  lives  for  aye, 
And  truth  of  an  eternal  day  ; 

Of  good,  all  real  joy  comprising — 
A  glory  fading  not  away. 

So,  as  from  day  to  day  I  view  thee, 
I  count  earth's  shadows  lighter  still ; 
And,  with  an  humble,  chastened  will, 

To  God's  own  Mount  up-looking  through  thee, 
Immortal  hopes  my  spirit  thrill. 

Dartmouth  College,  Feb.  15,  1867. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  153 

MISS  CLARA  P.  JOSLYN 

OF  JBROWNINGTON. 

THE  ANNUNCIATION. 

I  have  read  an  olden  story 

Of  a  far-off,  distant  clime, 
And  the  brightness  of  its  glory 

Lingers  through  the  mists  of  time. 

'Twas  no  fairy  land,  ideal, 

Pictured  o'er  with  fancy's  pen; 
But  its  hills  and  vales  were  real — 

Filled  with  homes  of  living  men. 

On  the  plains,  serene  and  peaceful, 

While  the  crowded  city  slept  ; 
O'er  their  flocks  the  shepherds,  faithful, 

'Neath  the  skies  their  vigils  kept. 

Read  I,  in  this  ancient  story, 

How  an  angel  form  they  saw, 
Radiant  with  such  wondrous  glory, 

That  their  hearts  were  filled  with  awe. 

Smiling,  spake  the  heavenly  stranger: 

"  Fear  not !  joyful  news  I  bring  : 
Lo  !  this  day,  within  a  manger, 

Lies  the  Saviour,  CHRIST,  your  King." 

On  the  grand  Judean  mountains, 

E'en  the  reverent  winds  were  stayed ; 

Softer  played  the  murmuring  fountains, 
As  his  tones  such  music  made. 


154  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Then  a  throng  of  angels,  praising, 
Hover  near,  on  joyous  wing; 

While  the  holy  song  they  're  raising : 
"  Glory  to  the  new-born  King. 

"Praise  nnto  onr  God  be  given — 
Peace  on  earth,  to  men  good-will;'' 

Chanting  thus,  they  soar  to  heaven, 
And,  once  more,  the  plain  is  still. 

Did  the  shepherds  linger,  waiting — 
Doubting  if  the  words  were  true  ? 

^0 — with  eager  steps  they  hasten 
Till  the  Holy  Child  they  view. 

Still  is  ours,  this  wondrous  story — 
Yet,  to-day,  this  Saviour  lives ; 

Though  we  may  not  view  His  glory, 
Many  a  token  true  He  gives. 

Out  of  weakness,  strength  would  flourish, 
Were  this  thought  but  kept  in  view : 

() !  that  we  the  faith  might  cherish, 
Bethlehem's  humble  shepherds  knew. 


MUSINGS,  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  A  YEAR. 

A  smile,  or  a  tear;  and  which  shall  it  be? 

For  the  year  so  surely  fled ; 
For  another  wave,  on  life's  boundless  sea, 
That  is  hurrying  on  to  eternity, 

With  a  swift,  but  noiseless,  tread. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  155 

Let  us  quietly  pause,  on  this  old  year's  eve, 

And  review  the  fading  past : 
For  aught  of  wrong  can  we  now  retrieve  ? 
Or  will  it  avail,  if  we  sadly  grieve, 

O'er  the  shadows  our  lives  have  cast? 

Have  the  talents,  intrusted  to  each  and  all, 

Been  improved  with  watchful  care  ? 
Have  our  hearts  responded  to  sorrow's  call, 
And  our  hands  been  ready  with  aid  for  all 

Who  had  need  of  our  help  and  care  ? 

Many,  the  burdens  of  hopes  and  fears, 

The  old  year  bears  away, 
To  be  tested  anew,  in  coming  years — 
Sometimes  with  smiles,  and  anon  with  tears, 

Till  they,  too,  have  drifted  away. 

There's  many  a  heart  that  will  ache  to-night 
O'er  the  sorrows  the  year  hath  brought ; 

Its  coming  they  hailed  with  a  calm  delight; 

Yet  its  closing  leaves  but  a  dreary  blight, 
And  with  sadness,  deep,  is  fraught. 

There's  many  a  heart  that  will  mourn  to-nightr 

And  many  an  eye  will  weep 
O'er  cherished  hopes,  that  have  taken  flight, 
And  darling  forms  that  have  fled  from  sight — 

Resting  in  dreamless  sleep. 

Yes;  into  how  many  a  loving  band, 
The  angel  of  death  hath  been ; 
And,  taking  our  loved  ones  by  the  hand, 


156  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Conveyed  them  away  to  the  better  land, 
Where  's  no  sorrow,  pain,  nor  sin. 

But  are  there  no  blessings  o'er  which  we  may  smile, 

In  the  year  that  has  glided  away  ? 
Hath  "  Our  Father"  forgotten  the  way  to  beguile, 
With  pleasures,  and  mercies,  and  happiness,  while 
We  saw  only  thorns  by  the  way  ? 

Hath  our  cup  not  been  mingled  with  bitter  and  sweet 

By  the  hand  of  Omnipotent  love  ? 
And  shall  we  not  learn  our  afflictions  to  meet 
With  patient  submission,  and  sit  at  His  feet, 

Who  ruleth  in  mansions  above  ? 

Then  a  tear,  to-night,  for  the  old  year  gone, 

Ne'er  again  to  meet  us  here; 
And  a  smile,  as  its  parting  hour  steals  on, 
With  a  prayer  that  our  work  be  well  begun, 

When  we  greet  the  "  Happy  New  Year." 


HON.  WILLIAM    C.    BRADLEY 

Was  born  in  Westminster,  March  23,  1782.  He  was  of  ancient 
and  honorable  descent.  His  great  grandfather  was  a  soldier  in 
Cromwell's  famous  "Ironsides."  His  father,  Stephen  R.  Bradley, 
served  in  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  came  to  Vermont  at  an 
early  day,  where  he  did  good  service  in  laying  the  foundations  of 
our  institutions — was  a  leading  lawyer  and  statesman,  a  Judge  of 
the  Supreme  Court,  the  first  Senator  from  Vermont,  and  twice  was 
chosen  President  of  the  Senate. 

In    1804,  Wm.  C.  Bradley,  when    only  twenty-two    years  old, 
was  elected  State's  Attorney,  a  responsibility  seldom  imposed  upon 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  157 

so  young  a  man.  This  office  he  held  for  seven  successive  years. 
At  the  age  of  twenty-four,  he  was  elected  to  represent  his  native 
town  in  the'General  Assembly,  arrd  was  re-elected  the  succeeding 
year.  In  1812  he  was  a  member  of  the  Governor's  Council,  and 
the  same  year  was  elected  to  Congress — the  first  native  of  Vermont 
who  received  that  honor,  and  the  youngest  man  who  has  ever 
been  elected  from  this  state.  It  was  no  disgrace  to  a  be  member  of 
Congress  at  that  time.  On  the  contrary,  it  was  "  prima  facie 
evidence"  that  a  man  was  of  respectable  social  standing,  of  good 
moral  character,  and  of  more  than  average  intellectual  ability  and 
attainments.  "There  were  giants  on  the  earth  in  those  days,'' 
and  some  of  the  mightiest  of  them  were  in  the  Thirteenth  Congress. 

There  was  Webster,  in  the  first  flush  of  his  power  and  fame. 
There  was  Lowndes,  of  South  Carolina,  only  a  month  older  than 
Mr.  Bradley,  but  already  a  leader  in  the  House,  by  virtue  of  his 
winning  eloquence  and  ripe  political  wisdom.  There  was  Ran 
dolph  of  Roanoke,  tall,  thin,  and  terrible,  whose  sharp,  shrill  voice 
of  bitterest  sarcasm,  pierced  not  the  ears  only,  but  the  very  soul 
of  the  unhappy  victim,  whom  his. long  fore-finger  singled  out  as  the 
object  of  his  venomous  attack.  There  was  Calhoun,  stern,  reserved 
and  imperious,  already  cherishing  the  germs  of  that  deadly  doc 
trine  of  State  Sovereignty,  which  has  ripened,  in  our  day,  into  such 
a  copious  harvest  of  blood  and  tears.  There,  too,  was  Henry  Clay, 
gracing,  for  the  first  time,  the  Speaker's  chair,  and  exercising  that 
wonderful  magnetism  which  made  his  friends  his  worshippers,  and 
even  his  enemies,  his  admirers.  To  be  a  member  of  a  Congress,  in 
which  were  such  men  as  these,  was  a  rare  honor  and  a  great  privi 
lege.  With  the  modesty  becoming  a  new  member,  Mr.  Bradley 
forebore  to  make  himself  conspicuous  in  the  debates;  but  he 
exhibited  powers  and  resources  which  secured  for  him  the  high 
respect  of  the  noblest  of  his  associates,  and  retained  it  as  long  as 
they  lived.  In  1817  he  was  appointed  agent  of  the  United  States 
under  the  treaty  of  Ghent,  for  adjusting  the  North  Eastern 
boundary,  and  was  employed  in  that  service  five  years.  In  1819 
he  was  a  member  of  the  Legislature  of  Vermont.  In  1823  he  was 
again  elected  to  Congress. 

For  twenty-five  years  after  his  retirement  from  public  life,  he 


158  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

devoted  himself,  most  assiduously,  to  the  practice  of  his  profession 
as  a  lawyer.  For  four  score  years  he  led  an  active  and  ha  ppy 
life.  He  died  at  Westminster,  March  3,  1867.  He  had  a  vivid 
imagination,  and  wrote  considerable  poetry — two  pieces  of  which 
we  give  below. 


A  BALLAD  OF  JUDGMENT  AND  MERCY. 

As,  at  midnight,  I  was  reading  by  my  light's  fitful  gleam  5 
I  fell  into  a  slumber,  and  lo  !  I  dreamed  a  dream  ; 
This  outer  world  had  undergone  a  great  and  sudden  change, 
And  every  thing    around  me  seemed  wondrous  new  and 
strange. 

No  sunlight,  no  moonlight,  no  starlight  glittered  there — 
A  mild  and  shady  twilight  seemed  to  permeate  the  air ; 
And  there  sat  the  blessed  JESUS.    No  golden  throne  had  He, 
But  was  clad  in  simple  majesty,  as  erst  in  Galilee. 

Behind  Him,  Justice,  Mercy,  Truth — safe  guides  in  earthly 

things — 
Their  functions  now  absorbed  in  Him,  all  stood  with  folded 

wings  ; 

And  the  Recording  Angel,  with  deeply  sorrowing  look, 
Took  in  his  hands,  and  opened  the  all-containing  Book. 

There  came  a  distant  murmur,  as  of  waves  upon  the  shore, 
While  throngs  on  throngs,  un-n umbered,  into  the  Presence 

pour; 

By  their  instincts,  segregated  here,  nigh  the  close  of  time 
Rush  the  dead  of  every  nation — of  every  age  and  clime. 

They  stop  astonished,  all  abashed,  and  with  attentive  ear, 
Though  the  angel's  lips  were  moving,  no  accents  could  I  hear; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  159 

Yet,  of  that  startled  multitude,  to  each  like  lightning  came 
His  life's  continuous  story — its  mingled  guilt  and  shame. 

From  all  the  secrets  there  disclosed,  oh  !  who  could  lift  the 

vail  ?  . 

Or,  of  the  varied  shades  of  wrong,  unfold  the  dreadful  tale 
Of  kingly  pride,  plebean  spite — of  violated  trust — 
Of  mastering  force — of  hidden  sin,  hate,  cruelty  and  lust  ? 

Each  has  his  due  allotment;  and,  with  agony  of  heart, 
The    vast    assemblage    vanished    at    the     thrilling    word 

"Depart!" 

There  was  no  driving  angel,  and  no  extraneous  force, 
For  conscience  was  accuser,  and  the  punisher,  remorse. 

When  this  I  saw  transacted,  upon  my  face  I  fell ; 

The  anguish  of  that  moment  no  human  tongue  can  tell  ; 

With  throat  convulsed  and  choking,  I  gasped  and  strove 

to  cry, 
"  Have  mercy.  Lord  !  Oh  mercy  have !  a  sinner  lost  am  I !" 

To  look  upon  that  face  again,  how  was  it  I  should  dare  ? 
And  yet  I  wildly  ventured,  with  the  courage  of  despair; 
When  that  pitying  eye  fell  on  me,  beaming  mercy  from  above, 
And  I  saw  that  smile,  ineffable,  of  never-dying  love  ! 

By  so  sudden  a  transition,  all  stupefied,  I  gazed, 

Then,  in    my    members    trembling,    rose    bewildered    and 

amazed ; 

But  kindest  words  of  comfort  the  blessed  Master  spoke, 
Which  wrapped  my  soul  in  ecstacy,  and,  sobbing,  I  awoke. 


160  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  FOUR  PHILOSOPHERS. 

Four  great  philosophers 

Come  every  year, 
Teach  in  the  open  air, 

Then  disappear. 

Winter  's  the  stoic, 
So  chill  and  heroic  ; 

He  sits  in  the  mountain-breeze,  biting  and  pure ; 
And  when,  to  bring  fear  and  doubt, 
Damp  nightly  winds  are  out, 
Wraps  an  old  cloak  about — he  can  endure. 

9 

Spring,  at  dull  hearts  to  mock, 
Comes  in  a  farming  frock, 

WTith  garlands  and  plowshare  a  lesson  doth  give ; 
He  sings  through  the  fields  awhile, 
Turns  up  the  soaking  soil, 
All  haste  and  laughing  toil — briskly  can  live, 

Summer,  with  mantle  free, 
Epicurean  he, 

Lolls  in  the  cooling  shade,  like  a  tired  boy, 
While  blazing  suns,  unkind, 
Leave  the  stout  mower  blind, 
Where  faints  the  mountain-wind — he  can  enjoy. 

Autumn  when  all  are  done, 
He's  the  good  Christian  one, 
Fills  well  the  granaries,  where  seeds  may  lie, 
New  coming  years  to  bless  ; 
Then,  in  his  russet  dress, 
All  hopes  and  quietness — sweetly  can  die. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


MISS  ELISABETH  ALLEN 

Was  born  in  Craftsbury,"  May- 17,  1794.  The  town  was  then 
mostly  a  wilderness,  and  three  or  four  months'  attendance  at  a 
district  school  was  the  extent  of  her  opportunity  for  acquiring  an 
education.  She  early  became  fond  of  reading,  and  was  well  ac 
quainted  with  all  the  books  which  the  place  afforded.  In  accord 
ance  with  the  inspiration  of  natural  scenery — of  which  she  was 
passionately  fond — and  in  accordance  with  her  own  buoyant  and 
joyful  spirit,  she  made  some  attempts  at  poetic  composition.  But, 
at  the  age  of  sixteen,  she  was  attacked  with  a  fever  which  wholly 
deprived  her  of  hearing.  This  misfortune  gave  a  melancholly  turn 
to  her  thoughts,  which  did  not  exist  before.  Thus  deprived  of 
social  intercourse,  she  found  her  chief  amusement  in  composing 
both  prose  and  poetry.  She  published  a  volume  of  poems  in  1832, 
from  which  the  poem  below  was  taken.  Well  do  we  recollect 
visiting  her  room,  in  1848  and  1849,  when  we  were  attending 
school  at  Graftsbury  Academy,  and  conversing  with  her  through  the 
blind  alphabet,  and  we  found  her  taste  refined,  and  her  mind  well 
stored  with  knowledge.  She  died  at  Coventry,  Vt.,  Nov.  17,  1849 
aged  55  years  and  6  months. 

THE  IRISH  EMIGRANTS. 

[The  following  lines  were  suggested  by  the  appearance  of  a  family  of  indigent 
Irish  Emigrants,  who  were  taken  in  and  provided  for  by  the  lady  of  Gov.  Crafts, 
whose  benevolent  character,  is  well  known  to  the  public.] 

To  our  dear  friends  in  Erin  we  gave  the  last  parting, 
And,  sighing,  set  sail  for  the  "  new  world,"  afar, 

Our  bosoms  were  heaving,  the  fond  tear  was  starting, 
But  we  saw,  and  we  followed,  a  bright  beaming  star. 

And  long  we  were  tossed  on  the  wide,  foaming  ocean, 
E'er  anchored  in  safety,  light  rested  our  bark  ; 

Our  bosoms  were  throbbing  with  lively  emotion, 
When  first  we  were  landed  in  happy  New  York. 


162  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS 

But  no  door  was  opened,  with  welcome  to  hail  us, 

As,  homeless  and  friendless,  we  passed  through  the  street; 

Despair  had  already  begun  to  assail  us — 
We  bitterly  sighed  for  some  happy  retreat. 

But  the  sweet  star  that  led  us,  we  followed,  though  weary, 
And,  o'er  the  Green  Mountains,  we  took  our  lone  way ; 

Our  famishing  babes,  in  our  arms,  strove  to  carry ; 
And  toiled  on  our  journey  through  many  a  day. 

At  last,  when  frail  nature  was  drooping  and  tiring, 

When,  far  from  our  friends,  and  our  dear  native  shore ; 

With  hunger  and  weariness,  almost  expiring, 
A  lady  took  pity,  and  opened  her  door. 

She  welcomed  us  all  to  her  hearth,  cheerly  blazing, 
And  spread  on  her  table  a  bountiful  store ; 

Then,  while  on  our  faces  so  palid,  was  gazing, 

She  wept,  and  she  said — "  you  shall  wander  no  more." 

The  sweet  star  of  hope,  by  which  we  were  guided, 
Stood  over  the  mansion,  and  beamed  most  divine ; 

For  our  ease  and  our  comfort,  she  quickly  provided, 
And  bade  us  no  longer  at  hardships  repine. 

With  grateful  emotions  our  bosoms  are  swelling — 
Our  infants  are  lisping  and  prattling  the  same — 

Of  her,  who  has  found  us  a  home  and  a  dwelling, 
Afar  from  the  land  of  oppression  and  shame. 

May  the  smiles  of  prosperity  ever  attend  her, 
And  free  be  her  bosom  from  sorrow  and  care  ; 

May  guardian  angels  watch  o'er  and  defend  her — 
Thus  fervent  shall  rise  the  poor  emigrant's  prayer. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  163 


MARSHALL    CARTER 

Was  born  in  Buckland,  Massachusetts,  but  moved  to  Vermont  early 
in  life.  He  studied  law,  was  admitted  to  the  bar,  and  practiced  at 
Bennington.  He  died  Sept.  5,  1820,  at  the  age  of  29  years. 

This  song  was  written  upon  leaving  his  native  valley  to  seek  his 
fortune  in  the  world. 

MY  NATIVE  VALLEY. 

Farewell,  my  native  valley, 

Farewell,  my  native  valley ; 
Sweet  scenes  of  love  and  peace,  adieu  ! 

For  I  must  leave  my  native  valley. 

No  more  on  Clesson's  banks  shall  I — 
In  pensive  Autumn  evenings  rambling — 

Mark,  in  the  pools,  the  inverted  sky, 

Or  moon-beams,  in  the  swift  stream  trembling. 

No  more,  when  Winter's  wild  winds  rage, 
And  round  the  hills  their  forces  rally, 

Shall  I  in  harmless  sport  engage, 
Snug  in  some  cottage  of  the  valley. 

When  Spring,  the  air,  with  fragrance  fills — - 
The  landscape  gay,  with  flowers  adorning-— 

No  longer  shall  I  climb  these  hills, 

To  meet  the  bright-eyed,  rosy  morning. 

When  Summer  all  its  fervor  pours, 

A  listless  languor  round  diffusing, 
No  longer  shall  I  spend  my  hours 

In  you,  sweet  grove,  supinely  musing. 


164  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But,  most  of  all,  it  pains  my  heart 
To  leave  the  friends  I  love  so  dearly, 

From  all  I  Ve  ever  known  to  part — 
This  blow — stern  fate — I  feel  severely. 


FREDERIC  ADAMS  GAGE 

Was  born  in  Barton,  Vermont,  Oct.  19,  1828.  Nearly  ten  years 
of  his  childhood  were  spent  in  Charleston,  in  the  same  county — ten 
years  in  Westminster,  and  the  remaining  years  in  teaching,  in  the 
Southern  States.  He  died  at  Westminster,  May  22,  1854,  at  the 
age  of  25  years.  He  had  but  very  little  opportunity  for  schooling ; 
but  having  a  great  thirst  for  knowledge,  and  being  an  untiring 
reader  of  standard  works,  he  became  a  brilliant  prose-writer  and 
eloquent  speaker.  He  wrote  but  little  poetry,  not  believing  him 
self  a  "  born  poet."  Two  of  his  poems  are  gi\cen  here. 

THE  RED  VAPOR. 

A  LEGEND  OF  THE  MASSACRE  AT  FORT  WILLIAM  HENRY. 

The  mists  of  the  valley  had  fled  on  the  gale, 
And  the  gay  beams  of  morning  enlivened  the  vale, 
When  forth  from  the  battlements,  ragged  and  torn, 
Came  a  band  of  stern  warriors,  still  weary  and  worn. 

Still  weary  with  fighting,  and  warm  in  the  strife, 
They  gave  to  the  foeman  the  care  of  each  life ; 
For  the  spotless  white  banner  of  Peace  floated  free, 
In  the  soft,  balmy  air  that  rolled  up  from  the  sea. 

A  horde  of  dark  savages  hovered  around 

Like  vultures,  that  watch  where  the  prey  may  be  found : 

Still  nearer  they  hovered — a  wild  shout  arose — 

'T  was  the  death-knell  of  vanquished  and  weaponless  foes. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  165 

Then  the  streams  that  ran  down  to  the  Hudson  grew  red, 
For  many  a  gallant  lay  down  with  the  dead ; 
Then  a  flashing  red  vapor. was  seen  to  arise — 
A  flashing  red  vapor  encircled  the  skies. 

With  hatchets  uplifted,  and  scalping-knives  raised, 
The  fierce  warriors  trembled,  and  heavenward  gazed  : 
They  saw  the  red  vapor  careen  in  the  skies — 
One  moment  it  flashes,  then  suddenly  dies. 

The  knife  and  the  hatchet  were  loosed  in  the  hand ; 
The  death-dealing  weapon  fell  down  on  the  sand : 
Full  a  minute  they  gazed  on  the  sky's  ruddy  breast — 
Full  a  minute  they  gazed,  but  the  sky  was  a't  rest. 

Then  the  death-yell  arose,  then  the  blood  flowed  anew, 
And  a  broad  crimson  torrent  the  valley  ran  through : 
The  blood-thirsty  warriors  knelt  down  by  its  side, 
And  drank  long  and  deeply  from  out  the  red  tide. 


The  pride  of  the  red  man  shall  triumph  no  more, 
For  the  wigwams  are  desolate  on  the  lake's  shore; 
A  thousand  bold  warriors,  in  anguish,  have  died, 
For  the  Angel  of  Death  laid  his  hand  on  the  tide.* 


'TIS  SWEET  TO  SLEEP. 

'T  is  sweet  to  sleep  where  wild  flowers  bloom 
Around  the  pilgrim's  forest  tomb ; 

*  History  records  that  a  large  share  of  the  Indians,  who  participated  in  the 
massacre,  died  of  the  small-pox  communicated  to  them  by  drinking  the  blood  of 
their  victims. 


166  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Where  naught  but  wild-birds  carol  gay 
Is  heard  from  dawn  till  dusk  of  day. 

'T  is  sweet  to  sleep  where  mermaids  dwell, 
Far  down  within  some  rocky  dell ; 
Where  playful  sea-fish  find  a  home, 
And  earth's  wild  sorrows  never  come. 

'T  is  sweet  to  sleep  where  wild  winds  rave 
Above  the  sailor's  island  grave ; 
'T  is  sweet,  when  life's  rough  voy'ge  is  o'er, 
To  sleep  where  billows  roll  no  more. 

'T  is  sweet  to  sleep  at  Glory's  call ; 
'T  is  sweet  upon  her  field  to  fall ; 
But  sweeter,  far,  his  sleep  shall  be, 
Who  falls,  defending  Liberty. 


D.  C.  STEWART. 

("The  following  Poem  was  found  in  an  old  newspaper  (title  of  paper  lost,)  and  cred 
ited  as  taken  from  "  Whitney's  Republic ; "  and  its  author  must  have  been  a 
Vermonter,  though  unknown  to  us.  The  poem  is  worthy  of  being  treasured  up 
among  the  gems  of  thought  of  Old  Vermont.] 

VEEMONT. 

My  native  land  !  in  many  a  dream, 

Beneath  the  northern  skies, 
Amid  the  purpling  clouds,  I  see 

The  dark  Green  Mountains  rise  ; 
And  proudly  o'er  thy  valley  sands, 

The  bright  blue  waters  roll, 
Whose  music  broke,  at  life's  clear  dawn, 

With  glory,  on  my  soul. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  167 

Though  years  have  flown  since  last  I  saw 

Thy  mountains'  crested  pines, 
I  love  thee  for  the  memories 

That  cling  around  thy  shrines— 
For  all  that  e'er  my  boyhood  knew, 

Loved,  beautiful  or  grand, 
Is  cradled  'mong  thy  hills  and  vales — 

My  own  Green-Mountain  land  ! 


I  love  thee  for  those  hero  souls, 

Who  answered  Freedom's  call ; 
I  love  thee  for  the  liberty 

Thou  claim'dst  and  gav'st  to  all ; 
I  love  thee  for  the  stalwart  arms, 

And  braver  hearts,  that  stand 
A  stronger  guard  than  castle  walls, 

For  thee,  my  native  land ! 

I  may  have  trod,  in  sunnier  climes, 

Where  rolls  the  flashing  Khine, 
Or  Albion  rears  her  chalky  cliffs — 

A  kindlier  soil  than  thine  ; 
But  never  have  I  seen  the  spot — 

Loved,  beautiful,  or  grand — 
That  led  my  heart  away  from  thee, 

My  own  Green-Mountain  land ! 


168  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


MISS  FLORENCE  E.  SIIEDD 

Was  a  native  of  Hardwick,  and  an  eminent  Scholar.  She  pursued 
her  studies  at  Hardwick  Academy  for  several  years,  and  afterward 
graduated  at  the  State  Normal  Sc  hool  at  Randolph.  She  taught 
for  several  terms,  before  and  after  her  graduation,  with  good  suc 
cess.  She  was  an  amiable  young  lady,  and  was  esteemed  by  all 
who  knew  her.  She  died  at  Hardwick,  in  1870. 

She  occasionally  wrote  poetry,  and  we  publish  one  piece  which 
has  been  preserved. 

MEMORY. 

There's  a  storehouse,  made  for  by-gone  days, 

Filled  with  gems  and  pictures  rare ; 
And  gentle  voices,  and  olden  lays, 

And  secrets  are  hidden  there. 

The  stores  of  knowledge,  the  mind's  high  thoughts, 

Are  laid  there,  like  jewels,  by, 
And  buried  hopes,  that  the  heart  has  brought, 

In  that  storehouse — Memory. 

How  dear  to  us  is  its  magic  art — 

Though  a  shade  of  grief  it  cast ; 
For  naught  hath  power  to  touch  the  heart, 

Like  the  pictures  of  the  past. 

For  the  grey-haired  man,  his  boyhood's  home 

Is  there,  as  in  years  before ; 
The  brook  and  play-ground  he  called  his  own, 

Remind  him  of  days  of  yore. 

He  sports  again,  where  he  loved  to  meet 
With  his  boyhood's  early  friends — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  169 

Now  a  father's  smile  his  glad  eyes  greet — 
A  mother,  his  wish  attends. 

He  forgets  that  time,  in  its  onward  track, 

Has  changed  him  from  boy  to  man ; 
The  years  that  have  passed,  since  then,  roll  back — 

The  old  man  is  young  again. 

Pictures  of  peace,  for  the  stricken  one, 

Are  painted  in  beauty  there  ; 
Ere  hopes  were  blasted,  and  loved  ones  gone, 

Or  the  heart  knew  grief  and  care. 

Dear  forms  and  faces  are  brought  to  view, 

Remembered  words  are  spoken ; 
The  hand  of  friendship  is  grasped  anew, 

As  when  fond  ties  were  broken. 

0,  Memory  has  a  mystic  power 

To  awaken  smiles  or  tears  ; 
It  points  the  aged  to  youthful  hours — 

The  mourner,  to  happier  years. 

'Tis  a  link,  connecting  life's  brief  chain 

Together,  by  unseen  bands ; 
The  past  and  present,  like  sisters  twain, 

Unite  at  the  call  of  man. 

The  hidden  future  is  yet  untold — - 

The  present  we  know  and  see — 
But  the  vanished  past  is  ours,  to  hold 

By  the  bands  of  Memory. 


170  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


CHARLES  HENRY  IIAYNES,  A,  M., 

FORMERLY     OF     PERU,   VERMONT — NOW     PRINCIPAL    OF    FENN     ST.    GRAMMAR     SCHOOL, 
PITTSFIELD,  MASS. 


THE  OLD  CLOCK. 

WRITTEN  AT  PERU,  VERMONT,  1862. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  beating  an  even  time, 

From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  morn, 
With  loud  alarm,  as  day  is  born — 

Keeping  pace  with  my  measured  rhyme. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  behind  the  great  hall  door — 
Slow  and  steady,  steady  and  slow, 
Backward  and  forward,  to  and  fro, 

Swings  the  pendulum,  near  the  floor. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  within  an  oaken  case — 
\Veights  and  pullies,  pullies  and  weights 
Mark,  with  hands,  the  flying  dates, 

Gliding  o'er  the  smooth,  round  face. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  a  lesson  all  must  learn — 
The  young  and  aged,  aged  and  young 
Count  the  strokes  of  its  great  brass  tongue- 
Knell  of  hours  that  never  return  ! 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  I  well  recall  the  day, 
Slyly  creeping,  creeping  so  sly, 
Shunning  my  mother's  watchful  eye, 

On  the  great  hall-floor,  by  the  clock  I  lay : 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  171 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  not  long  I  thus  had  lain; 

Sun  and  shadow,  shadow  and  sun, 

(Type  of  the  race  we  mortals  run,) 
Brightened  its  face,  then  faded  again. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  in  silvery  tones  it  said, 
"  Gay  and  happy,  happy  and  gay, 
May  life  be  bright  as  a  Summer's  day, 

And  years  pass  lightly  o'er  thy  young  head." 

Tick,  tick,  tick — it  never  spake  me  more ; 

Sound  and  silent,  silent  and  sound, 

The  great  hands  moved  in  their  ceaseless  round, 
And  the  pendulum  swung  as  e'er  before. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  I  seem  to  hear  it  now ; 
'T  will  start  the  tears,  the  tears  will  start, 
Though  the  frost  of  age  has  chilled  my  heart, 

And  silver  threads  are  on  my  brow. 

Tick,  tick,  tick,  it  sounds  the  same,  more  clear, 

Slow  and  steady,  steady  and  slow, 

Backward  and  forward,  to  and  fro, 
It  has  not  swung  this  many  a  year. 


EVENING  MUSINGS. 

WRITTEN  AT  FITCHBURG,  MASS.,  1861. 

'T  was  evening — brightly  shone  the  stars, 

No  cloud  was  in  the  sky, 
The  breeze  sighed  gently  through  the  trees, 

The  noon  of  night  was  nigh. 


172  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  birds  had  long  since  gone  to  rest, 
The  lowing  herds  were  still ; 

The  wandering  mind  no  longer  felt 
The  influence  of  the  will. 

Out  on  the  evening  air  it  sped, 
And  over  hill  and  dale, 

O'er  flowing  streams,  and  mountains  high- 
No  hindrance  could  avail ; 

Once  more  I  sat,  where  oft  before, 
In  childhood's  happy  home, 

Ere  I  the  last  farewell  had  said, 
Life's  rougher  path  to  roam. 

Once  more  I  greet  the  friends  of  youth, 

And  hear  the  welcome  sound, 
My  mother's  voice — what  else  like  this, 

Can  cause  the  heart  to  bound  ? 
New  life  and  courage  seem  infused 

Deep  in  my  weary  veins ; 
I  think  myself  a  child,  again, 

Nor  dream  of  grief  or  pains. 

I  see  the  winding  paths,  wherein 

'Twas  my  delight  to  tread, 
While  forest  trees,  with  graceful  arch, 

Join  far  above  my  head, 
As  if  to  check  the  scorching  sun, 

And  cast  a  grateful  shade — 
To  lift  our  thoughts  from  earth  to  Him, 

By  Whom  all  things  were  made. 

I  see  the  busy,  rumbling  mill, 
The  pond  that 's  flowing  nigh, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  173 

Which  mirrors  on  its  placid  breast 

The  mountains,  topling  high ; 
As  if  to  penetrate  the  heavens, 

Or  clasp  the  flying  cloud, 
To  weave  a  misty  garment  bright, 

Or  else,  mayhap,  a  shroud. 

I  see  the  lofty  bights,  from  which 

The  sun's  first  rays  reflect, 
And  struggle  through  the  misty  vail, 

In  rainbow-hues  bedecked ; 
I  watch  the  Summer  foliage 

First  blush,  and  then  grow  pale, 
And  dropping  from  the  parent  stem, 

When  winds  of  Autumn  wail. 

I  see  a  woody,  sylvan  nook, 

The  spring  which  bubbles  there  ; 
The  wines,  which  fabled  Bacchus  sips, 

Are  not  more  rich  and  rare. 
How  often,  at  the  close  of  day, 

When  weary  work  was  o'er, 
I  'd  hie  me  to  the  sparkling  fount — 

E'en  sweeter  than  before. 

I  see — but  ah,  't  is  all  a  dream  ! 

The  clock  from  yonder  tower 
Dissolves  the  vision,  as  it  strikes 

The  solemn  midnight  hour ; 
And  gazing  forth  upon  the  night, 

How  changed  the  scene  which  greets 
Not  of  my  far  off  mountain  home  — 

Brick  walls,  and  dusty  streets. 


174  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

MY  MOTHER. 

WRITTEN  AT  WESTFIEI.D,  MASS,  1862. 

There  is  one  word,  than  other  words  more  dear, 
There  is  one  spot,  where  e'er  my  footsteps  roam, 

To  memory  sacred,  to  my  vision  clear  ; 

That  word,  my  Mother,  and  that  spot,  my  Home. 

In  sweetest  slumber,  or  in  midnight  dream 
Alike,  I  feel  upon  rny  throbbing  brow, 

Her  gentle  hand,  caressing,  as  to  seem 
My  happy  childhood  days  returneth  now. 

When  ceaseless  cares  my  heavy  heart  oppress, 
When  sorrow's  billows  o'er  me,  surging,  roll, 

Her  gentle  voice,  in  tender  tones,  to  bless, 
Like  music,  whispers  courage  to  my  soul. 

Temptations  oft  my  sinful  heart  assail, 

When  most  from  evil  I  would  stand  aloof; 

And  when  the  chidings  of  my  conscience  fail, 
Her  watchful  eye  will  speak  a  mild  reproof. 

Though  us  between  high  mountains  lift  their  heads, 
And  wide  and  deep  the  rushing  rivers  run, 

My  thoughts,  un traveled,  over  all  have  fled, 
Far  toward  the  limits  of  the  setting  sun. 

0,  may  my  heart,  by  love  and  duty  bound, 
Forever  cherish  those  I  hold  most  dear — 

My  Mother — sweeter  word  has  ne'er  been  found, 
My  Home  no  lovelier  spot  can  greet  me  here. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  175 

WAKE!  SONS  OF  VEKMONT! 

WRITTEN  AT  PERU,  VERMONT,  1862. 

Wake  to  the  sound  of  the  drum  and  the  fife, 
Wake  to  the  charms  of  a  soldier's  life, 
Wake  and  be  ready,  ready  for  the  strife, 

'T  is  God  and  your  country  calls. 
Now  has  the  time  of  need  come  nigh, 
Proudly  is  floating  our  flag  on  high, 
Low  in  the  dust  it  shall  never  lie, 

Though  the  rebel  host  apalls. 

Freely  for  freedom  our  forefathers  fought, 

A  home  for  their  children  with  blood  dearly  bought  ; 

Shall  we  undo  all  the  work  which  they  wrought  ? 

Shall  we  the  union  dissever  ? 

The  hand  of  the  traitor  has  plucked  from  the  mast 
The  ensign  of  freedom,  by  treasure  made  fast ; 
Can  we  forgive  and  forget  all  the  past  ? 

No — conquer  them  now  and  forever ! 

Our  brothers  repaired  to  the  field  long  ago, 
And  bravely  they  've  met  and  conquered  the  foe  ; 
They  call  for  our  aid,  and  shall  we  answer,  no  ! 

And  desert  them  now  in  their  need  ? 
The  blood  of  the  slain,  from  Virginia's  soil, 
Cries  for  vengeance,  aloud,  to  the  strong  sons  of  toil : 
Haste,  haste  and  delay  not,  the  proud  traitors  foil  ; 

To  the  rescue,  volunteers,  speed  ! 

When  Editors  banish  the  scissors  and  pen, 
When  farmers,  mechanics,  lawyers  and  men, 
With  one  accord  rush  to  the  standard,  O,  then, 
The  day  of  redemption  is  sure. 


176  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Then  rouse  ye  for  freedom,  brave  sons  of  Vermont ! 
Show  in  battle  array  an  unwavering  front ; 
No  hardship,  no  danger  your  courage  can  daunt  — 
For  God  and  your  country  endure ! 


MISS  JULIA  R.  HASTINGS 

OF  CRAFTSBURY. 

VOICES. 

Listen  !  do  you  hear  those  voices 
Softly  stealing  through  the  air, 

As  they  come  with  magic  sweetness 
From  God's  works,  so  bright  and  fair  ? 

One  melodious  flood  of  music, 
Heard,  e'en  by  the  pure  on  high, 

Bursts,  with  power,  upon  our  spirits, 
From  the  earth,  the  sea  and  sky. 

In  the  early  hush  of  morning, 
Ere  life's  busy  cares  and  scenes 

Crowd  upon  our  weary  spirits — 

Oh !  how  sweet  earth's  music  seems  ! 

Silv'ry  mists,  whose  soft  embraces, 
Hold  the  first  bright  rays  of  sun, 

As  he  vainly  strives  to  bring  us 
Tidings,  that  the  morn  has  come, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  177 

Melt  away,  in  mimic  rainbows, 

Dancing  after  music,  sweet ; 
And  the  sunshine,  golden-sandaled, 

Greets  the  shadows  at  our  feet. 

Now,  a  merry  little  songster, 

Waking  from  his  slumber,  light, 
Carols  forth  his  song  of  gladness, 

That  the  morn  has  dawned  so  bright. 

Then  the  wild-flowers  catch  the  spirit 

Of  the  pean,  sweetly  given , 
And  impart  their  simple  orFring 

To  the  gentle  breeze  of  heaven. 

E'en  the  dew-drops  are  not  silent — 

Glistening  on  the  slender  blade, 
As  bright  crowns,  of  brilliant  luster, 

Are  with  jewels  overlaid. 

As  we  wander  through  the  forest, 

And  its  deep  recesses  seek, 
The  very  stillness  seems  to  whisper 

Of  the  praises  it  would  speak. 

Forest  stillness,  deep  and  dreamy, ' 

And  soft  skies  that  seem  to  brood 
With  a  tender  watch-care  o'er  us, 

Speak  of  rest  and  quietude. 

Stately  trees,  with  foliage,  verdant, 

Towering  toward  the  vaulted  sky, 
Hear  the  breeze's  stifled  murmur, 

And,  joyous,  chant  the  sweet  reply. 


178  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Little  streamlets,  gaily  singing, 

Sparkle  in  the  clear  sun-light; 
And  the  hills,  hearing  the  chorus, 

Clap  their  hands  in  wild  delight. 

Nought,  among  the  works  of  nature, 

Can  restrain  its  joyful  lays ; 
All  in  one  harmonious  concert, 

Sweetly  sing  the  Author's  praise. 

Not  earth,  alone ;  for  standing  by  the  sea, 
A  murmur  from  its  depths  is  borne  to  me, 
Though,  indistinct  at  first,  it  greets  my  ear, 
Yet,  listening,  voices,  clear  and  wild,  I  hear ; 

They  come  with  thrilling  power  upon  my  soul, 
From  threatening  billows,  as  they  madly  roll ; 
Some — loud  and  terrible,  with  anguish  fraught, 
Others — low  echoes,  from  the  distance  brought. 

Could  we  but  see  the  mysteries  that  lie 
Beneath  thy  billows,  hid  from  mortal  eye, 
No  more  we  'd  wonder  that  the  sounds  which  rise, 
Fill  every  heart  with  silence  and  surprise. 

Thy  surging  waves  have  witnessed  fearful  scenes ; 
How  many  ardent  hopes  and  bright  life-dreams 
Have,  'neath  thy  cheerless  waters,  found  a  grave ; 
And  still  thou  rollest  on — wave  upon  wave. 

Low  sounds  are  borne  from  ripples,  pure  and  bright, 
They  tell  of  treasures  which  lie  hid  from  sight — 
Of  flashing  diamonds,  of  such  beauty,  rare, 
Not  all  the  gems  of  earth  are  half  so  fair — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  179 

Of  tinted  shells,  of  every  form  and  hue, 
Which  lie  beneath  this  broad  expanse  of  blue  — 
Of  winding  caves  and  grottoes,  deep  and  wide — 
Of  pearls  and  mosses,  rare,  on  every  side. 

Now  tones  of  anguish  from  its  depths  are  borne ; 
They  tell  of  hearts  from  home's  sweet  influence  torn — 
Of  sad  farewells,  and  tears  of  fond  regret, 
Which  those,  on  land  or  sea,  could  ne'er  forget — 

Of  lonely  voyage — watching  for  the  shore — 
Thoughts  of  kind  friends  who  'd  greet  the  mnever  more? 
Of  fearful  wrecks,  out  on  the  lonely  sea — 
The  soul's  swift  flight  into  Eternity. 

No  loved  ones,  round  their  coffins,  shed  the  tear, 
Or,  in  keen  anguish,  followed  by  the  bier; 
No  kind  hand  robed  them  for  the  silent  tomb  ; 
Above  their  heads,  no  flowers  in  sweetness  bloom. 

Among  the  corals  peacefully  they  sleep, 
Beneath  the  restless  surgings  of  the  deep; 
The  sea-weed,  wild  and  tangled,  is  their  shroud — 
There  rest  until  the  last  trump  soundeth  loud. 

Voices  from  the  sky  now  reach  us,    . 

And  in  accents  low  they  come; 
Telling  of  a  land  of  beauty, 

Where  bright  spirits  ever  roam. 

Though  earth's  voices  tell  of  gladness, 

And  the  sea  of  beauties  rare, 
Yet,  methinks  their  sweetest  echoes 

With  these  tones  cannot  compare. 


180  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Hear  the  soul-inspiring  music 

From  the  stars  which  gem  the  sky  ! 

Are  they  not  the  eyes  of  angels 
Peering  from  their  home  on  high  ? 

Oh  !  how  lovingly  they  watch  us, 

As  we  tread  life's  thorny  way ! 
Tenderly  they  guide  our  footsteps, 

Lest  from  virtue's  path  we  stray. 

Hear  them  tell  of  spotless  garments, 
Which,  if  faithful,  we  may  wear  ; 

Starry  crowns,  of  radiant  hrightness, 

Wreaths,  and  palms,  which  conquerors  bear. 

Do  these  voices,  deep  and  earnest, 

Fall  unheeded  on  thine  ear  ? 
Wake  they  not  an  answering  echo  ? 

Speak  they  not  kind  words  of  cheer  ? 

If  our  souls  commune  with  Nature, 

As  her  voices  sweetly  call, 
They  will  wake  an  answering  echo ; 

They  will  not  unheeded  fall. 

We  may  ever  hear  them  singing, 

As  with  hope  we  labor  on ; 
They  will  brighten  up  life's  pathway, 

Till  our  mission,  here,  is  done. 

When  the  startling  cry — u  To  battle  !" 

Echoed  over  land  and  sea, 
Brave  hearts,  answering  to  the  summons, 

Fell,  while  struggling  to  be  free. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  181 

Then  was  heard  the  cry  of  anguish 

From  hearts,  torn  and  crushed  with  pain, 

White  lips  breathed,  in  broken  accents — 
Will  he  ne'er  come  back  again  ? 

Then  the  voice  of  peace  re-echoed 

O'er  this  scene  of  fearful  strife  ; 
Once  again  were  praises  chanted, 

And  sad  hearts  received  new  life. 

But  a  voice,  in  the  dim  future, 

Will  be  heard  in  greater  power 
Than  the  cry  of  war  e'er  sounded, 

Or  the  wail  in  sorrow's  hour. 

Then  earth's  brave  ones,  who  have  fallen 

On  the  blood-stained  battle-field, 
Will  be  gathered,  in  vast  numbers, 

Never  more  the  sword  to  wield. 

And  those  forms,  so  long  imbedded 

In  the  waters  of  the  deep, 
Shall,  with  joy,  obey  the  summons, 

And  awake  from  their  long  sleep. 

Then  the  voices,  which  now  greet  us 

From  the  earth,  the  sea  and  sky, 
Will  be  hushed  in  awful  stillness, 

As  they  hear  that  thrilling  cry. 

Bursting,  then,  in  sweeter  music, 

One  rich  anthem,  loud  and  long, 
Will,  in  rapturous  notes,  be  sounded 

By  all  voices,  in  one  song. 


182  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  RETROSPECT. 

Seventy,  to  day  !  Ah,  can  it  be  ? 

It  seemed  but  yesterday 
When  I,  a  thoughtless  little  child, 

Spent  all  my  time  in  play. 

And  when  I  think  of  those  glad  hours, 

So  full  of  girlish  glee, 
I  can  but  earnestly  exclaim — 

Childhood!  come  back  to  me. 

Come  back  to  me,  0  golden  days  ! 

Why  have  ye  flown  so  soon  ? 
Tis  but  a  dream,  and  yet,  ye  're  gone — 

Can  ye  not  grant  one  boon  ? 

Methinks  my  playmate's  forms  T  see, 
As,  side  by  side,  we  strolled; 

Now  gathering  flowers  by  the  way, 
With  petals,  bright  as  gold  ; 

Then,  some  old  forest-path  we  trod, 
Where  wild  birds  gaily  sang; 

With  peals  of  laughter,  blithe  and  gay, 
The  old  woods  loudly  rang. 

Again  we  gathered  pebbles  bright, 
Close  by  the  brooklet's  bank — 

Made  cups  of  leaves,  and  then,  from  them, 
The  cooling  waters  drank. 

These,  these  were  happy,  joyous  days — 

Days  of  intense  delight ; 
Around  them  clustered  rarest  joys, 

And  pleasures,  pure  and  bright. 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  183 

But  though  thought  fain  would  linger  here, 

'Tis  swiftly  hurried  on 
To  other  scenes,  perchance  more  fair : 

Yet,  scenes  as  quickly  gone. 

Childhood  is  past — the  maiden,  now, 

Stands  on  the  stage  of  life ; 
Before  her  gaze  the  future  seems 

With  countless  pleasures  rife, 

Bowing  at  Wisdom's  shrine,  she  seeks 

Its  precious  truths  to  learn ; 
While,  in  her  heart,  poetic  fires, 

With  strange,  wild  fervor,  burn. 

Bright  hopes  of  happiness  and  joy 

Are  kindled  in  her  soul: 
She  '11  rest  not  till  her  longing  eyes 

Behold  the  priceless  goal. 

Loved  friends  her  aspirations  share, 

And  kindred  souls  unite 
Their  cherished  dreams  and  hopes  of  life 

Ah  !  these  were  days  so  bright ! 

Where,  now,  are  those  once  loved  so  much  ? 

Alas  !  they  are  not  here ; 
Their  winning  smiles  no  more  I  '11  see, 

Nor  catch  their  words  of  cheer. 

The  rose  has  faded  from  their  cheeks  ; 

Sweet  friendship's  ties  been  riven  : 
They've  long  since  closed  their  eyes  on  earth, 

To  wake,  again,  in  heaven. 


184  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  blinding  tears  unbidden  start, 

And  dim  my  failing  eyes; 
As  truthful,  priceless  memory 

Calls  up  these  tender  ties  : 

But  e^en  while  weeping  for  the  lost, 

I  seem  to  hear  the  chime 
Of  merry  bells,  whose  joyous  peal 

Recalls  a  happier  time. 

List  to  their  tones  !  I  hear  them,  now  ; 

The  golden  wedding-bells  : 
"  Oh!  what  a  world  of  happiness 

Their  melody  foretells." 

The  echoes  of  their  silv'ry  peals 
Bring  clear  to  mem'ry's  view 

The  altar — bridegroom  and  the  bride 
Vow  to  be  always  true. 

Then  came  such  days  of  happiness 
That  I,  in  those  glad  hours, 

Forgot  the  path  of  life  could  not, 
Always,  be  strewed  with  flowers. 

But  He,  Who  reads  our  inmost  souls, 
Saw  that  my  heartstrings  twined 

Too  closely  round  the  joys  of  earth — 
He  knew  my  worship,  blind. 

He  snatched  my  idol  from  my  grasp, 

And  left  me  all  alone, 
The  wild  winds  only  mocked  my  woe 

With  their  sad,  dirge -like,  tone. 


•  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  185 

0  Death  !  I  cried,  give  back  thy  spoil ! 
Restore  my  earthly  stay : 

Vainly  I  called,  until  tl*ey  came 
And  bore  the  form  away. 

They  laid  it  to  its  resting-place, 

Beneath  the  cold,  damp  sod ; 
In  my  wild  grief  I  would  not  bow 

Beneath  the  chastening  rod. 

Long  years  have  passed  since  that  dark  day  ; 

They've  brought  sunshine  and  showers  ; 
Though  oft  the  earth's  been  chilled  with  frosts, 

Soon  followed  Spring's  fair  flowers. 

So  in  my  heart's  recesses  deep — 
Though  oft  with  sorrow  riven  — 

1  find  that,  in  its  treasure-cell , 
Bright  flowers  have,  too,  been  given. 

These  years  have  left  their  lines  of  care 

Upon,  this  aged  brow  ; 
Yet,  though  my  heart 's  been  crushed  with  grief, 

I  am  submissive  now. 

I  see  my  Heavenly  Father's  hand 

Above  the  clouds,  so  dark — 
He'll  through  the  raging  billows,  high, 

Guide  safe  my  trembling  bark. 

For,  now  I  know,  that  smiles  and  tears  — 

Like  rain  and  sunshine  given — 
Form  bows  of  promise  in  our  sky, 

To  guide  us  home  to  Heaven. 


186  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS/ 


LIFE  IN  DEATH. 

On  every  gilded  treasure 

That  decks  our  world,  so  fair, 

The  seal  of  death  is  written — 
All  things  its  impress  bear. 

'Tis  sad  that  all  things  lovely 

Must  surely  fade  and  die ; 
Why  can  they  not  live  alway  ? 

Sweet  echo  makes  reply  : 

Though  Death's  unyielding  fingers 

His  helpless  victims  hold, 
He  cannot  always  bind  them, 

Within  his  giant  fold. 

No !  they,  again,  will  waken, 

Again  sweet  praises  sing  ; 
They  '11  break  his  icy  fetters — 

From  all  death — life  will  spring. 

The  flowers,  that  bloomed  so  brightly, 

Scatter  their  faded  leaves ; 
The  snows  of  winter  press  them, 

The  chill  wind  o'er  them  breathes. 

They  're  gone — their  mission's  ended— 
Their  bright  hues  all  have  fled. 

But  will  they  never  brighten  ? 
Are  they  so  surely  dead  ? 

A  little  Germ  is  clinging 

To  the  Leaflet's  trembling  form ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  187 

As  if  to  seek  protection 

From  the  fierce  and  raging  storm, 

Keen  Winter's  icy  footsteps 

Give  place  to  Spring's  soft  tread : 
The  sun's  mild,  searching  glances 

O'er  sleeping  Nature  spread. 

This  little  Gerni  awakens 

From  its  long  and  fast  repose ; 
Expands,  shoots  forth,  and  blossoms — 

Once  more  a  lovely  rose. 

Down,  low  before  the  altar, 

An  anxious  sinner  kneels  ; 
The  moan,  and  silent  tear, 

Tell  the  anguish  which  she  feels : 

List  to  the  earnest  pleadings 

That  from  her  lips  ascend  ! 
"  Blot  out  my  sins,  0,  Saviour  ! 

Sweet  peace,  from  Heaven,  now  send  !  " 

The  blessing  quickly  follows ; 

All  doubts  and  fears  are  fled ; 
New  life,  in  CHRIST,  is  beaming 

From  the  soul,  so  lately  dead. 

And,  now,  she  longs  the  story 

To  tell  to  friends  most  dear ; 
And  this  begets  the  yearning 

To  spread  it  far  and  near. 

Her  eager  thoughts  turn  quickly 
To  those  across  the  tide, 


188  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Who  know  of  naught  but  sinning — 
Who  have  no  heavenly  guide. 

For  them  she  '11  leave  her  country, 
And  all  that  life  holds  sweet, 

To  brave  rough  storms  and  dangers, 
Trials  and  cares  to  meet. 

A  group  of  tear-stained  faces 
Gathers  upon  the  shore, 

To  speak  the  tearful  parting 
To  her  they  '11  see  no  more. 

With  streaming  eyes,  the  mother, 
Ere  the  parting  word  is  said, 

Murmurs — "  May  JESUS  help  you 
Carry  life  unto  the  dead." 

One  ling'ring  look  is  given 

To  the  loved  and  cherished  band- 
She  leaves  her  home  of  childhood, 
For  a  strange  and  heathen  land. 

The  broad,  white  sails,  unfurling, 
Bear  her  across  the  sea  : 

Her  mission's  still  before  her — 
Th'  imprisoned  soul  to  free. 

She  seeks,  by  kind  entreaties, 
To  win  souls  to  the  fold  • 

She  tells  the  precious  story 
That  never  will  grow  old : 

How  the  life  they  are  receiving 
Came  through  the  death  of  One, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  189 

Who  closed  His  life  in  sorrow, 
For  death,  in  sin,  to  atone. 

The  hearts  of  those  who  listen, 

Dead  as  the  desert  seem ; 
But,  life  is  soon  awakened, 

By  the  Spirit's  gentle  beam. 

Then  praises — oh !  so  joyous — 

Swell  from  that  distant  shore  ; 
The  souls,  that  once  were  fettered, 

Are  freed  forever  more. 

How  blest  in  such  a  mission  ! 

Who  would  not  share  its  joy  ? 
'Tis  better,  far,  than  clinging 

To  pleasures  which  alloy. 

We  shrink  from  death,  which  snatches 

The  loved  from  our  embrace, 
And  gaze,  with  anxious  longing, 

On  the  cold  and  deathly  face. 

With  sorrow,  close  the  eyelids 

O'er  dim  orbs,  once  so  bright, 
And  clothe  the  clay,  now  lifeless, 

In  robes  of  purest  white. 

We  press  the  last  kiss,  fondly, 

On  the  cold  and  marble  brow — 
They  know  not  of  our  sorrow — 

They  're  sweetly  sleeping  now. 

They  're  borne  into  the  church-yard — 
Laid  in  the  cold,  damp  grave ; 


190  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

They  're  left,  alone,  in  silence, 

With  the  flowers  that  o'er  them  wave. 

But,  will  they  always  rest  here, 
Since  life,  on  earth,  is  done  ? 

Though  dead,  to  us  who  loved  them, 
Their  life  is  but  begun. 

For,  in  the  glorious  morning 

When  the  trumpet's  note  shall  sound, 

A  clarion  voice  will  waken 

Those,  sleeping  'neath  the  ground. 

To  them  will  crowns  of  glory, 
And  harps  of  gold  be  given  ; 

They  '11  range  the  fields  celestial, 
And  taste  the  joys  of  Heaven. 

Then,  no  more  death  or  parting — 
No  sorrow,  pain,  or  strife; 

All  will  be  joy  and  gladness — 
A  glorious,  heav'nly  life. 


JUDAII    DANA,  A.  M., 

PRINCIPAL  OF  RUTLAND  GRADED  SCHOOL. 

OUK  FLAG. 

The  star-spangled  banner — the  Red,  White  and  Blue, 
A  trinity  sacred,  displayed  to  our  view, 
We  '11  cherish  it  more,  since  insulted  by  those 
Who  ought  to  protect  it  from  all  of  its  foes. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  191 

The  Red  is  an  emblem  of  blood,  that  was  shed 
To  purchase  the  blessings  that  round  us  are  spread ; 
And  ours,  to  maintain  them,  as  freely  shall  flow, 
So  long  as  a  traitor  is  left  as  a  foe. 

The  White  will  remind  us  how  pure  is  our  cause, 
When  fighting  with  traitors — maintaining  the  laws — 
Inspire  us  with  courage  and  firmness,  to  stand , 
Till  treason  no  longer  shall  darken  our  land. 

The  Blue — emblematic  of  Friendship  sincere — 

We  '11  never  forsake  it  through  doubt  nor  through  fear, 

But  cling  to  it  closely,  though  perils  arise, 

And  fight  for  it  bravely— all  dangers  despise. 

The  Stripes  represent  what  the  traitors  will  gain 
Who  seek  to  disgrace  it,  or  rend  it  in  twain  ; 
And  Stars  will  they  have,  who  defend  it  from  wrong, 
'Gainst  traitors  ungrateful,  or  foes  that  are  strong. 

The  star-spangled  banner,  the  Red,  White  and  Blue, 
The  emblems,  so  sacred,  displayed  to  our  view — 
May  never  a  star,  in  its  galaxy  fade, 
But  ever  grow  brighter — in  beauty  arrayed. 


A  CALL  TO  PATRIOTS. 

Our  country's  in  danger — ye  Union-men  come 
To  the  sound  of  the  trumpet — the  beat  of  the  drum ; 
For  War  is  abroad,  with  his  murderous  hand, 
Invading  the  soil  of  Freedom's  fair  land. 


192  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

War-dogs  of  Carolina,  let  loose  on  her  soil, 
A  re  panting  and  thirsting  our  land  to  despoil — 
They  '11  find  but  poor  Picfans,  whatever  they  've  sought, 
When  they  march  in  an  ay  'gainst  the  true-hearted  Scott. 

There  's  a  maxim  as  true  as  its  doctrine  is  sad, 
"Whom  the  gods  would  destroy,  they  first  cause  to  bemad," 
Let  their  Beau-regard  well  both  his  honor  and  life — 
Woe,  woe  to  the  traitor,  whom  Scott  meets  in  strife. 

Jeff  Davis  must  give  up,  and  let  his  Wig-fall, 
And  yield  must  each  traitor,  at  Freedom's  loud  call; 
Then  dreadful  his  fate,  whom  fair  Liberty  dooms ; 
For  true  men  and  traitors  will  early  find  Toombs. 

Let  the  South  boast,  and  Bragg,  they  '11  grow  Slemmer,  we 
If  they  ever  in  battle  shall  meet  him  as  foe ;  [know, 

For  like  Anderson  true,  since  the  issues  begun, 
He  is  eager  for  keeping  E.  Pluribus,  one. 

Must  our  Union  be  severed,  its  banner  destroyed 
By  those  \vho  its  honors  have  amply  enjoyed  ? 
Accursed  be  the  tongue,  that  has  uttered  the  thought — 
And  palsied  the  arm,  that  disunion  has  sought. 

The  Union  it  must  be  preserved  and  kept  whole, 
No  wave  of  dishc  nor,  unpunished  should  roll; 
Arouse,  then,  ye  Patriots,  for  Liberty  strike, 
And  smite  down  each  foeman  and  traitor  alike. 

Strike,  too,  for  your  homes — for  your  altars  and  fires, 
And  strike  for  your  country,  the  land  of  your  sires — 
The  star-spangled  banner  must  wave  o'er  the  free, 
Defended  and  honored,  on  land  and  on  sea. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  193 

OUR  VOLUNTEERS. 

When  Treason  reared  his  hideous  head, 
With  bold,  defiant  arms  outspread, 

Chilling  our  hearts  with  fears, 
Who,  then,  to  save  our  "  Ship  of  State," 
Went  boldly  forth,  with  hearts  elate  ? 

Our  patriot  VOLUNTEERS  ! 

Let  Eastern  Monarchs  proudly  boast 
Of  armies  trained  to  guard  their  coast, 

And  quell  their  anxious  fears; 
A  safer,  stronger  guard  have  we, 
Defending  us,  on  land  and  sea — 

Our  matchless  VOLUNTEERS. 

No  standing  armies  had  we  kept, 

Our  wars  had  ceased — in  peace  we  slept, 

For  lulled  were  all  our  fears; 
We  little  thought  how  strong  a  band 
Was  forming  down  in  "  Dixie's"  land, 

To  call  for  VOLUNTEERS. 

But  when,  on  lightning  wings,  were  borne 
Reports  of  Sumpter  from  us  torn, 

Then  roused  were  all  our  fears ; 
And  men,  true  hearted  men  were  found, 
Who  started  forth,  at  War's  dread  sound, 

To  go  as  VOLUNTEERS. 

All  honor  to  that  noble  band, 
Who,  firm  for  Freedom  took  their  stand, 
When  high  were  raised  our  fears — 


194  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Who  quickly  seized  the  sword  and  gun, 
And  forward  marched  to  Washington — 
Those  noble  VOLUNTEERS. 

And,  when  war's  deadly  strife  shall  cease- 
When  all  our  hearts  rejoice  in  peace, 

And  hushed  are  all  our  fears ; 
With  loud  huzzas  the  air  shall  ring, 
And  grateful  tributes  will  we  bring 

For  gallant  VOLUNTEERS  ! 


"GOD  HAS  A  PLAN." 

"  God  has  a  plan 

For  every  man," 
And  He  's  a  plan  for  you ; 

So,  watch  and  pray, 

And  He,  some  day, 
Will  show  you  what  to  do. 

Be  not  afraid, 

Nor  e'er  dismayed, 
Though  clouds  obstruct  your  view ; 

But  watch  and  pray, 

From  day  to  day — 
He  '11  teach  you  what  to  do. 

In  every  state 

Be  't  small  or  great, 
There  's  work  enough  for  you, 

And,  day  by  day, 

While  here  you  stay, 
Ask  what  He  '11  have  you  do. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  195 

Then  labor  on 

Till  life  is  done — 
Eternity  in  view ; 

And  never  shirk, 

But  do  the  work 
Which  He  may  show  to  you. 


CLINGING  CLOSELY  UNTO  THEE. 

Dearest  Saviour,  grant  Thy  blessing, 
All  unworthy  though  we  be  ; 

May  we  each,  Thy  love  possessing, 
Follow  closely  after  Thee. 

Let  the  world,  with  all  its  treasure, 

Far  behind  us  ever  be  ; 
May  it  be  our  chiefest  pleasure, 

Foll'wing,  closely,  after  Thee. 

While  we  are,  in  life,  advancing 

To  the  dread  eternity ; 
May  Thy  love,  our  hearts  entrancing, 

Join  us  closely  unto  Thee. 

When  we  leave  this  world  of  sadness, 
With  our  souls  from  sin  set  free, 

May  we  go  with  joy  and  gladness, 
Clinging  closely  unto  Thee. 


196  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


DECEPTION. 

From  the  primitive  days  of  Adam  and  Eve, 
And  Satan's  successful  attempt  to  deceive 
Our  First  Parents,  and  make  them  believe 

That  evil  was  good, 

If  rightly  understood, 
In  village  and  hamlet,  in  city  and  town, 
From  the  beggar  in  rags,  to  the  king  on  his  throne, 

Deception  has  reigned 

Over  men  unrestrained ; 
And  its  author  will  still  continue  his  sway 
Till  the  dawn  of  that  bright  Millennial  day, 

When  war  shall  cease, 

And  the  nations,  in  peace, 

Shall  hail  the  release 

Of  Truth,  from  its  thraldom  to  Error  and  Wrong, 
And  the  binding  of  Satan,  so  firm  and  so  strong, 

That  never  again 

Will  he  walk  among  men, 

But  shall  dwell  in  a  cave,  dark,  dreary  and  wild, 
Where  hope  never  entered,  and  peace  never  smiled. 

The  vices,  beheld  in  deception's  false  glass, 
Reveal  but  the  features  of  virtue's  fair  face, 

And  allure  the  young 

With  their  flattering  tongue — 
On,  step  after  step,  in  destruction's  broad  road, 
Till  they  sink  'neath  the  weight  of  sin's  heavy  load. 

Then  let  us,  with  care 

Early  learn  to  beware 

Of  deceit's  fatal  snare, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  197 

Which,  for  us,  he  has  so  temptingly  spread — 
And  all  of  its  meshes,  so  warily  laid : 

But  few  would  believe 

That  aught  could  deceive — • 
Beneath  an  exterior — so  faultless  and  fair 
That  nothing  of  wrong  should  be  lingering  there. 


PARODY. 

Breathes  there  a  boy,  with  soul  so  dead 

Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

"  I  am,  indeed,  a  natural  fool, 

To  mis-improve  my  time  in  school — 

Whose  conscience  ne'er  within  him  burned, 

When,  to  himself,  his  mind  he  turned, 

And  thought  he  'd  never  rue  the  day 

In  which  he  fooled  his  time  away  ? 

If  such  there  be,  go,  mark  him  well  ; 

In  him  no  aspirations  swell 

Above  the  beasts  which  graze  the  field ; 

Else  he  his  time  would  never  yield 

To  thoughtless  indolence,  or  play, 

Nor  rules  of  school  would  disobey — 

High,  though,  his  parents,  proud  their  name  ; 

Boundless  their  wealth  as  wish  can  claim — 

Despite  those  parents'  name  and  pelf, 

The  wretch,  forgot  by  all  but  self, 

Living,  shall  gain  no  fair  renown, 

And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 

To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 

Unwept,  unhonored — may  be,  hung. 


198  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

DO  EIGHT. 

To  the  child  that  's  just  starting  in  life's  busy  way, 
Whose  soul  is  entranced  with  the  joys  of  to-day, 
I  would  whisper  one  maxim  to  guide  him  along 
In  the  path  where  temptations  around  him  will  throng, 

"Do  right." 

To  the  boy,  whose  whole  mind,  with  frivolity  gay, 
Regards  only  things  that  pertain  to  his  play, 
I  would  whisper  one  maxim,  in  accents  so  clear, 
He  would  cease  from  his  sport — -to  my  words  would  give  ear, 

"Do  right." 

To  the  youth,  who  sees  naught  in  his  castles  in  air, 
That  can  thwart  his  success,  or  his  plans  can  impair, 
Who  can  see  his  whole  life  pictured  out  in  his  mind, 
I  would  whisper  one  maxim — a  safe  one,  he  '11  find — 

"  Do  right." 

To  him  who  has  passed  on  to  manhood's  full  prime, 
Who  to  labor  and  gain  is  devoting  his  time, 
I  would  whisper  one  maxim,  and  have  him  give  heed, 
It  is  one  will  sustain  him,  when  greatly  in  need — 

"  Do  right." 

To  the  man  who  has  lived  to  his  three-score  and  ten, 
Who  has  found  that  his  hopes  have  been  cherished  in  vain, 
Which  he  formed  with  so  earnest  a  trust  in  his  youth, 
I  would  whisper  one  maxim — one  guiding  to  truth — 

"  Do  right." 

"  What  is  right  ?  is  there  any  one  asks  of  me  here, 
Can  you  tell  us  the  meaning  in  accents  as  clear, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  199 

As  you  Ve  told  us  the  words  you  would  on  us  impress !" 
It  is  this,  "  to  love  God"  't  is  no  more,  't  is  no  less — 

"  Do  right." 


LINES  WRITTEN  FOR  THE  DEDICATION  OF 
AN  ALBUM. 

Go,  little  book,  cull  friendship's  flowers 
That  blossom  in  those  early  hours 

When  all  the  life  is  gladness — 
Ere  riper  age  has  brought  its  cares — 
Ere  sin  has  laid  his  treach'rous  snares 

And  filled  the  heart  with  sadness. 

To  call  to  mind  the  friends  of  youth, 
When  all  our  hopes  were  bright  with  truth, 

Is  memory's  sweetest  duty  ; 
It  soothes  the  cares  of  later  years — • 
It  drives  away  our  doubts  and  fears — 

It  shows  us  only  beauty. 

Go,  then,  my  book,  record  the  names 

And  thoughts  of  those  whom  friendship  claims — 

To  me  a  sacred  treasure — 
That  when  in  after  years  I  see 
Those  thoughts  and  names,  so  dear  to  me, 

'T  will  be  a  source  of  pleasure. 


200  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

NORTH-WIND,  SUN  AND  TRAVELLER. 

JESOV. — FABLE    41. 

Upon  a  stormy,  gusty  day, 

North-wind  was  boasting  of  his  sway — 

The  mighty  deeds  he  could  perform, 

Whene'er  he  chose  to-  raise  a  storm . 

He  boasted  of  the  trees  upturned — 

Of  wealthy  cities  he  had  burned  ; 

He  told  of  ships  upon  the  strand 

Destroyed  by  his  all-powerful  hand ; 

Then  in  a  loud,  defiant  tone, 

And  with  a  bluster  all  his  own, 

He  scornful  turned  his  haughty  head, 

And  thus  unto  the  Sun  he  said  : 

"  0  thou,  who,  king  of  day  dost  shine, 

How  weak  thy  power  compared  with  mine  ! 

What  mighty  deeds  hast  ever  done  ?" 

"I  boast  not,"  mildly  said  the  sun, 

"  Yet,  if  you  choose,  our  power  we  '11  try 

On  yonder  traveller  passing  by  ; 

Who  first  shall  cause  his  cloak  to  fall, 

Shall  victor  be  esteemed  by  all." 

To  this  the  Wind  gave  quick  assent, 

And  to  his  work  in  earnest  went ; 

He  shook  his  wings  with  furious  roar, 

And  loudly  raved,  and  stormed,  and  swore, 

But  as  he  fierce  and  fiercer  blew, 

The  traveller  close  and  closer  drew 

His  cloak,  and  held  with  firm  intent, 

Until  North-wind  his  force  had  spent — 

Who,  forced  at  last  the  point  to  yield, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  201 

Withdrew  in  haste  and  quit  the  field ; 
The  sun  shone  forth  with  brilliant  light, 
And  put  the  storms  and  clouds  to  flight. 
He  turned  the  darkness  into  day, 
And,  darting  down  his  warmest  ray, 
Compelled  the  man,  now  faint  and  weak, 
To  doff  his  cloak,  and  shelter  seek. 

MORAL. 

Who  blusters  loud  will  find,  at  length, 
A  quiet  firmness,  real  strength — 
That  he  who  strives,  with  careful  hand, 
To  scatter  blessings  o'er  the  land, 
Is  one,  who  noblest  power  enjoys — 
Not  he  who  wantonly  destroys. 


A  MORNING  PRAYER. 

Father,  in  love, 

Look  from  above 
And  hear  my  humble  prayer; 

Keep  me,  this  day, 

In  wisdom's  way —  . 
From  every  evil  snare. 

Oh,  Saviour,  dear,    ' 

Let  me  appear 
Before  my  Father's  throne, 

In  Thy  blest  name, 

And  ne'er  disclaim, 
The  triune  God  to  own. 


202  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Ob,  may  I  be 
Inspired  by  tbee, 

Thou  Spirit,  just  and  true ; 
To  Thee  give  heed, 
In  every  deed 

That  I  attempt  to  do. 

Thy  grace  impart, 
That  in  my  he#rt 

No  wicked  thought  may  rise, 
Nor  foolish  word 
Be  from  me  heard — 

Oli,  make  me  truly  wise. 

And  when,  at  last, 
My  days  are  past, 

And  labors  all  are  o'er ; 
Then  may  I  be 
Received  by  Thee, 

To  praise  forevermore. 


THE  MODEL  AND  THE  STATUE. 

"  Each  man  mtikes  his  own  statue — builds  himself." 

In  that  large  block  of  marble,  so  pure  and  so  white, 
Lies  a  statue  of  some  kind,  concealed  from  the  sight; 
And  the  artist,  who  seeks  to  reveal  it,  will  find 
It  to  be  like  the  model  he  has  in  his  mind. 

Would  he  Venus  de  Medici  out  from  it  bring, 
With  a  beauty  and  grace,  fit  for  palace  of  king, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  203 

Or  the  Greek  Slave,  so  faultless,  call  forth  from  its  sleep — 
Then  the  artist  his  eye  on  the  model  must  keep. 

With  a  strong,  steady  nerve,  he  must  patiently  stand, 
And  must  earnestly  work  with  his  chisel  in  hand ; 
He  must  never  let  different  patterns  arise, 
With  illusions  to  dim,  or  to  dazzle  his  eyes. 

As  from  marble  the  statue  is  skillfully  wrought, 
And  perfection  of  beauty  is  out  of  it  brought ; 
So  from  each  human  form  the  Creator  has  made, 
There  must  come  forth  a  character  clearly  portrayed. 

His  own  skill  as  an  artist  must  every  one  prove, 
In  preparing  his  soul  for  the  mansions  above — 
With  the  sword  of  the  Spirit,  his  work  he  must  do, 
And  the  Saviour,  his  model,  keep  ever  in  view. 


MISS  MARY  A.  STRAW — now  MRS.  MARY  A.  JENNEY, 

OF   STOWE. 

WILL  IT  PAY? 

WRITTEN  AND  SPOKEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  STOWE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  FALL  TERM,  '64. 

Harsh  words  fell  on  a  young  child's  ear, 
Filling  its  heart  with  doubt  and  fear  5 
A  tear-drop  stood  in  those  little  eyes, 
Filled  with  amazement  and  sad  surprise, 
And  those  words  left  a  burning  spot — 
Should  the  man  forget,  the  child  could  not. 
They,  rankled  there,  the  seeds  then  sown, 


204  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Till  the  child  in  years  had  older  grown  ; 
And  then,  though  honored  by  man,  indeed, 
Those  seeds  had  grown  to  a  noxious  weed ; 
A  shadow  was  left  in  that  young  heart, 
Which,  else,  were  light  in  every  part. 
Kind  words  no  sorrow  ever  leave 
Within  the  heart,  to  make  it  grieve ; 
Then  do  not  pause,  nor  wait  to  say, 
Will  the  use  of  kind  words  ever  pay  ? 
They  will  not  pay,  in  lands  or  gold, 
But  yet  may  find,  in  a  heart  too  cold, 
A  place  to  shine  with  a  genial  light — 
Lining  the  clouds  with  sunshine  bright. 

The  fierce  storrn  fell  on  a  teacher's  head, 
As  she  stood  pleading  for  shelter  and  bread. 
The  house  's  uncleaned,  the  seamstress 's  here, 
And  we  've  not  killed  our  pig  this  year — 
The  door  closed  cold  in  the  teacher's  face ; 
Where,  oh  !  where  will  she  find  a  place  ? 
Then  wise  men  meet  in  grave  debate, 
To  view  all  sides  of  the  question  great. 
Shall  we,  the  district  teachers  find 
A  place  to  board  just  to  the  mind? 
Or  send  them  like  the  Wandering  Jew, 
Where  homes  there  are,  but  welcomes  few  ? 
But  oh  !  committee  man,  beware ; 
Your  feet  may  hit  a  hidden  snare ! 
Consider  well,  ere  you  decide — 
To  districts  go  where  it 's  been  tried ; 
Find  out  what  all  the  neighbors  say, 
Then  ask  the  question — will  it  pay  ? 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  205 

Pay  in  cents,  and  dimes,  and  dollars, 

As  well  as  benefit  to  scholars — 

Then  shall  we  board  the  district  teachers 

At  a  steady  place,  as  we  do  preachers  ? 

Or  send  them  round,  like  a  dog,  for  a  bone — 

Sometimes  to  find  one,  sometimes  none  ? 

I  do  not  mean  that  teachers  are  stinted — 

'Twas  only  this  I  gently  hinted : 

They  do  n't  like  going  from  "  pillar  to  post," 

Like  a  wandering  star,  or  restless  ghost; 

They  would  like  a  home-like  place  to  stay — 

That  is,  if  the  district  thought  't  would  pay — 

Where,  after  talking  the  livelong  day, 

They  could  go,  and  not  have  a  word  to  say ; 

And  not  be  called  unsocial  creatures, 

But  only  weary ,  faithful  teachers. 

A.  few  scholars  sat  in  a  school-room,  low, 

With  their  spines  inclined,  like  an  Indian's  bow  ; 

The  seats  were  far  from  the  school-room  floor, 

That  their  lungs  might  breathe  the  dead  air  o'er. 

The  house  was  built  on  the  rhetorical  plan — 

Get  much  in  little  space  as  you  can. 

In  such  school-houses,  small  and  low, 

They  think  Daniel  Websters  will  surely  grow — 

And  if  they  do  n't  'tis  the  teacher's  fault — 

But  do  n't  ever  try  to  raise  sheep  without  salt. 

You  would  think  that  that  was  a  queer  idea  • 

But  the  very  same  rule  applies  just  here. 

In  that  case,  then,'  you  'd  surely  say, 

It  can  't  be  done — it  will  not  pay. 

Then  give  the  child  all  the  chance  you  can, 

For  wisdom  will  not  spoil  the  man. 


206  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

In  after  years,  when  he's  your  stay, 
Ask  yourselves,  then,  if  it  ivill  pay. 

'Twas  Sabbath  morn — the  holy  light, 
In  beauty,  fell  o'er  the  landscape  bright  ; 
Young  feet,  nn  watched  by  a  mother's  care, 
Wandered  away  from  the  house  of  prayer. 
But,  "  Feed  my  lambs,"  the  Saviour  said  ; 
Yet  they  are  left  unwatched,  unfed, 
To  wander  with  sin  and  the  sinner  away, 
For  the  love  of  pure  hearts  will  not  pay. 

Will  it  pay  to  speak  kind  words  to  old  and  young  ? 
Will  it  pay  to  put  a  bridle  on  the  unruly  tongue  ? 
Will  it  pay  to  keep  the  children  from  ignorance  and  sin? 
Will  it  pay  to  have  them  walk  beauty's  paths  within  ? 
Will  it  pay  to  send  the  children  to  the  sanctuary, 
There,  in  holy  love,  evil  thoughts  to  bury? 

Will  it  pay  to  thank  these  friends,  as  they  pass  away, 
For  the  kind  and  marked  attention  that  they  have  pleased 
to  pay  ?  [ways, 

Yes,  for  there  's  no  word  we  use,  in  all  life's  changing 
That  principal  and  interest,  like  ''  thank  you,"  always  pays. 


SALUTATORY. 

WRITTEN  AND  SPOKEN  AT  THE  CLOSE  OF  SPRING  TERM  OF  STOWE  HIGH  SCHOOL,  1865. 

Welcome,  friends — a  gay,  glad  welcome 

'Tis  we  give  you  all  to-night ; 
Welcome,  welcome,  joyous  welcome, 

From  these  hearts,  so  free  and  light. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  207 

Welcome  from  each  dear  loved  school-mate — 

Welcome  from  these  teachers,  too; 
Welcome,  welcome,  hearty  welcome 

"Tis,  we  all  now  give  to  you. 

We  have  come  from  learning's  temple, 

And  with  ns  the  pebbles  brought, 
That  were  scattered,  and  we  've  gathered, 

By  the  boundless  sea  of  thought. 

We  have  come,  a  band  of  school-mates, 

At  the  close  of  one  more  term ; 
Not  with  fruits  of  present  greatness, 

But  of  future  flowers  the  germ. 

Although,  from  the  fount  of  knowledge, 

We  have  drunk  but  little  yet  ; 
Although  'mong  the  list  of  famed  ones, 

Our  own  names  have  not  been  set ; 

Yet  we  've  launched  our  barques,  all  gaily, 
On  the  stream  of  knowledge  bright, 

And  we  cast  our  anchor,  daily, 
That  we  drift  not  back  by  night. 

We  have  raised  our  standard  heavenward — 
Have  the  stars  and  stripes  unfurled ; 

And  the  motto  that  doth  guide  us, 
*  ;<  Schools ,  the  hope  of  all  the  world" 

Yes,  school-mates,  we  have  met  once  more, 
A  united,  happy  band  ; 

*  At  the  exhibition,  when  this  was  spoken,  a  large  U.  S.  flag  was  stretched  behind 
the  stage,  and  on  it  the  motto,  "  The  School — the  Hope  of  the  World,"  was  placed. 


208  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Though  parted  oft  we  've  been  before, 
Together,  once  again,  we  stand; — 

Stand,  as  should,  the  friends  of  learning, 

Boldly  in  the  battle's  heat; 
From  the  hardest  toils  ne  'er  turning, 

For  they  bring  rewards  most  sweet. 

Did  I  say  we  all  had  gathered — 
Gathered  one  unbroken  band  ? 

That  we  'd  met  with  joyful  welcomes, 
As,  of  yore,  we  used  to  stand  ? 

No — for  some  are  calmly  sleeping 
With  the  dear  and  holy  dead ; 

Others,  faithful  watch  are  keeping, 
Where  the  soldier's  tents  are  spread. 

Others,  still,  have  left  the  school-room, 
For  a  field  more  broad  and  large ; 

While  some  linger,  faithful  teachers, 
With  a  high  and  holy  charge. 

But  we  still  are  left  together 
Once,  again,  within  this  hall ; 

And  we  bid  you  one  more  welcome, 
Ere  the  Father's  voice  shall  call. 

Welcome,  then,  a  joyful  welcome, 
By  this  merry  school-mate  band ; 

Welcome  all  these  friends  of  learning — 
Friends  of  work  so  high  and  grand. 

But  there  '11  be  more  joyful  welcome, 
When  we  're  gathered  round  the  Throne- 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  209 

And  the  Saviour  gladly  welcomes — 
Every  child  of  earth,  His  own. 

Here,  we  seek  for  perfect  knowledge — 

There,  't  will  fill  each  human  heart; 
Here,  we  meet  with  joyful  welcomes — 

There,  we  '11  meet  no  more  to  part. 


RICHMOND    HAS    FALLEN;     OR    THE    RED, 
WHITE,  AND  BLUE. 

WRITTEN  JUST  AFTER  RICHMOND,  VA.,  WAS  TAKEN  BY  U.  S.  GRANT,  1865. 

Richmond  has  fallen ;  let  all  the  people  shout ! 

For  freemen  are  in,  and  rebels  are  out. 

Richmond  has  fallen !  and  every  foul  den 

Shall  now  be  opened,  to  free  our  brave  men. 

Then  hurrah  !  and  hurrah!  for  our  soldiers  so  true, 

Who  raised,  over  Richmond,  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

Proudly  the  thousands  marched  on  to  renown, 

And  Grant,  at  his  post,  to  Richmond  led  down ; 

There  they  lowered  the  "  Black  Flag"  that  floated  so  high, 

Then  marched  into  Richmond,  to  conquer  or  die, 

And  "Old  Abe1'  was  with  them — the  honest  and  true 

Was  with  those  that  carried  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

They  went  in  as  victors,  who  came  out  as  slaves, 
And  they,  who  came  masters,  went  out  hunted  knaves  : 
While,  'mid  the  loud  shouts  and  the  deafening  huzzas, 
They  welcomed  in  Richmond  the  Stripes  and  the  Stars : 
And  hope  in  their  hearts  was  awakened  anew,  [Blue, 

When  they  raised  over   Richmond    the  Red,  White,  and 


210  GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Richmond  has  fallen  !  fallen  low  in  the  dust, 

As  sooner  or  later  all  wrong  ever  must ; 

Oh  !  think  of  the  wrongs  our  boys  suffered  there, 

Now  we  know  they  are  free,  let  shouts  fill  the  air, 

Raise  your  voices  to  God  in  thanksgiving  anew  !         [Blue. 

For  they  've   raised  over  Richmond  the   Red,  White,  and 

Hurrah  for  our  Generals,  Sherman  and  Grant ! 

Who  are  watching  and  working  to  guard  freedom's  plant — 

Hurrah  for  the  victories  they  are  gaining  each  day  ! 

And  a  prayer  for  the  safety  of  those  in  the  fray : 

Yes,  and  hurrah  for  brave  Sheridan,  too  ! 

And  all  those  that  cany  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

Let  old  Britain  look  on,  with  her  scoffs  and  her  jeers, 

For  we  still  are  freemen,  after  all  of  her  fears : 

Now,  if  she  gets  nervous,  and  wants  any  tea, 

We  '11  furnish  it  for  her,  as  we  did  for  George  Three. 

And  if  she  dare  touch  us,  the  time  she  will  rue, 

For  she  '11  find  that  we  carry  the  Red,  W^hite,  and  Blue. 

Old  Lee  has  surrendered — and,  in  that  one  act, 

He  has  shown  to  the  world  the  unblushing  fact, 

That  cowards  and  knaves  have  banded  together, 

But  the  good  "  Ship  of  State"  has  t-lemmcd  the  foul  weather 

And  they  Ve  planted  their  feet,  both  leader  and  crew, 

On  the  soil  over  which  floats  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

Let  it  float,  let  it  float,  o'er  land,  and  o'er  sea, 
The  emblem  of  freedom,  the  pride  of  the  free  : 
Let  it  wave,  let  it  wave,  in  proud  triumph,  then, 
Over  true  loyal  women,  and  brave  noble  men; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  211 

Let  it  float  in  the  morning,  and  in  the  night-dew — 
Our  banner  of  freedom,  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

But  now  is  the  nation  enshrouded  in  grief, 
For  strange  news  has  come — ah  !  too  sad  for  belief; 
Our  leader  and  guide  by  the  assassin  is  killed, 
And  the  throb  of  his  true  heart  forever  is  stilled  : 
The  nation  is  mourning,  't  is  all  it  can  do, 
Except  to  enshroud  him  in  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 

Sleep  on,  noble  martyr !  thy  rest  thou  hast  won  ; 

The  cloud  has  passed  over,  the  battle  is  done : 

Thou  hast  guided  the  nation  through  darkness  and  gloom, 

Then  rest  thee,  0,  Lincoln  !  in  a  freeman's  proud  tomb : 

And  thou,  ransomed  land  !  thy  thanksgiving  renew 

To  the  "  God  of  the  nations,"  for  the  Red,  White,  and  Blue. 


GILBERT  THAYER 

OP  WINDSOR. 

Mr.  Thayer  has  written  under  the  name  of  "COPPER." 

THE  WINDSOR  CENT-HUNTERS. 

AN  IRREGULAR  AND  ORIGINAL  EPIC. 

Old  cents,  old  cents,  old  cents ! 

Of  ancient  date  and  rare  ! 
Old  cents,  old  cents,  old  cents  I 

Have  you  any  old  cents  to  spare  ?— 


212  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  cent-hunter  cries,  as  he  rapidly  flies 
From  shop  to  shop,  and  inwardly  sighs 
For  rusty  old  coppers,  of  ancient  dies  ! 
If  you  are  in  doubt, 
This  truth  about, 

And  wish  for  further  proof  to  come  out, 
Stand  here  with  me, 
And  soon  you  will  see 

The  cent-hunters  start,  all  professions  and  trades, 
From  the  wielders  of  pens,  to  the  wielders  of  spades  ! 
Old  cents,  old  cents,  old  cents, 

Of  Uncle  Sam's  coinage  nice, 
Old  cents,  old  cents,  old  cents — 

Oh,  these  are  the  pearls  of  great  price  ! 
The  teacher,  forgetting  his  grammar  and  Greek, 
Goes  searching  for  coppers  six  days  in  a  week, 
And  would  not  object  to  the  fours  or  the  sevens, 
Should  they  come  in  his  way, 
On  that  solemner  day 

Set  apart  to  prepare  for  our  rest  in  the  heavens  ! 
The  "  Doctor"  leaves  his  place  on  the  wall, 
The  shop-keeper's  coppers  to  overhaul, 
Or  into  the  street,  like  a  maniac  starts, 
Waylays  and  besieges  the  pedlers'  carts. 
The  merchant  of  Main-street,  who  hates  aristocracy, 
Sells  the  best  goods,  and  believes  in    democracy, 
With  a  relish  as  fine 
As  a  Judge  for  his  wine, 
Starts  off  in  pursuit  of  a  "  seventy-nine  !" 
The  son  of  old  Crispin  his  apron  lets  fall, 
Drops  his  lap-stone,  hammer  and  awl, 
And  soon  you  will  see 
Him  returning  in  glee 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  213 

With  a  "  nine,"  or  a.  "  six,"  or  a  "  twenty-three"— 

A  "  four"  or  "fourteen,"  as  the  case  may  be  ! 

,And  the  Editor,  dropping  his  scissors  and  pen, 

Goes  searching  for  coppers  with  common  men  ! 

Carefully  gathering  piece  by  piece, 

And  values  them  more  than  the  golden  fleece ! 

See  how  they  gather  them  up  in  piles, 

Colonial  coppers,  of  various  styles — 

"Franklins"  and  "  Washingtons,"  rusty  and  old, 

Covered  with  verdigris,  dust  and  mould ; 

"  Connecticuts,"  covered  with  scratches  and  dents, 

And  the  famous  old  "  Massachusetts  cents" — 

With  devices  unlike  as  the  pigeon  and  stork, 

Join  their  scar-covered  brethren  of  "  Jersey"  and  "  York !" 

Then  comes  the  Vermonter,  of  value  untold, 

With  dust-covered  visage,  audacious  and  bold, 

And  taketh  his  place  with  the  gathering  hosts, 

With  "  auctori  Vermon"  dimly  seen  through  the  mould, 

As  Ossian  saw  stars,  through  the  forms  of  his  ghosts ! 

The  strife  being  ended,  the  company  joins 

In  singing  the  praises  of  copper  coins, 

And  this  is  the  song  as  I  heard  it  sung, 

As  the  coppers  were  into  their  coffers  flung : 

Far  eastward,  by  the  Ganges  stream, 

In  heathen  lands,  so  we  are  told, 
Where  Reason's  lights  but  dimly  gleam, 

They  worship  images  of  gold ; 

But  we,  in  wisdom's  ways  advanced, 
Whose  feet  no  heathen  land  have  trod, 

With  hearts,  and  minds,  and  souls  entranced, 
Adore  the  mighty  Copper  god  ! 


214  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

His  star-encircled  face  we  see 
Beam  mildly  on  each  rusty  cent : 

He  kept  our  minds  from  trouble  free, 
And  will  till  the  last  "  red"  is  spent. 

Life  ended,  if  we  may  return, 

And  8wedenborg  avers  't  is  proper, 

With  senses,  quickened  to  discern, 

We  '11  still  pursue  the  trade  in  copper. 


CLOTH. 

Untaught  by  schools  in  science  of  rhyme, 

Unpensioned  by  kings,  and  not  caring  a  dime 

For  rules  that  were  made  in  the  morning  of  time — 

And  which  like  the  fossils  of  ages  old, 

Are  covered  all  over  with  moss  and  mould, 

I  only  tune  my  wonderful  lyre, 

When  Wisdom  decrees,  and  the  gods  inspire  ; 

But  the  lyre  which  should 

Be  here  understood 

Is  one  that  is  tuned  for  the  public  good — 
And  not  the  great  one  so  allied  to  sin, 
With  the  y  left  out,  and  the  *  put  in ; 
But  one  which  the  ages  in  tune  have  kept — 
Which  the  fingers  of  Homer  and  Virgil  have  swept : 
(Whose  music  still  rings  in  each  palace  and  shanty,) 
And  on  which  was  played  the  "Inferno"  of  Dante  : 
While  later  the  lyre  has  been  tuned,  in  turns, 
By  Shakspeare,  and  Copper,  and  Byron,  and  Burns  ! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  215 

Ladies  and  gentlemen,  here  let  me  mention 
My  theme  is  CLOTH  :  now  give  your  attention ! 
Go  into  the  street,  on  any  fine  day, 
And  select  the  stupidest  lump  of  clay 
That  ever  had  horse-hire  or  taxes  to  pay — 

Then  straightway  dump 

The  inanimate  lump, 
As  you  would  a  log,  a  stone,  or  a  stump, 

Down,  flat,  before 

The  tailor's  door — 
Giving  him  orders  strict,  the  while, 
To  dress  it  up  in  the  latest  style  ! 

A  week  has  passed,  and  the  tailor's  trade 

A  "  highly  respectable"  man  has  made, 

And  that  which  was  only  a  senseless  clod, 

Now  walks  with  the  airs  and  the  pomp  of  a  god ! 

In  French-calf  boots,  and  neat  kid  gloves, 

This  dandy  in  cloth  each  lady  loves, 

And  jumps  at  the  chance  to  hold  intimate  chat 

With  a  brainless  head,  in  a  shining  hat, 

As  eagerly  as  the  watchful  cat 

Would  spring  to  her  feet  at  the  sight  of  a  rat. 

Look  into  the  street  again !  there  goes 

A  man  in  the  commonest  kind  of  clothe  s  ; 

But,  just  as  plain  as  any  thing  can, 

Each  feature  speaks  of  an  honest  man. 

In  his  humble  home,  unaided,  alone, 

He  has  made  the  wisdom  of  ages  his  own; 

And  more  than  this,  and  better  than  all, 

He  has  strengthened  the  weak  who  were  ready  to  fall, 

And  the  lonely  hours  of  the  night  has  passed 

Where  the  lot  of  the  friendless  poor  is  cast ; 


216  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  the  motherless  child 

Has  looked  up  and  smiled 
Through  tears  that  fell  like  rain  on  the  floor, 
As  she  heard  his  well-known  step  at  the  door. 
And  thus  his  life  has  constantly  been 
A  mission  of  good  to  his  fellow-men : 
But  this  is  counted  as  only  froth ; 
For  one  thing  is  lacking,  and  that  is — cloth. 
In  the  temples  where  men  go  up  to  pray 
And  worship  the  gods  from  day  to  day, 
You  '11  see  the  man,  whom  the  tailor  made, 
Sitting  high  with  the  doctors  in  purple  arrayed, 
While  Nature's  great  nobleman,  dressed  in  plain  clothes, 
Whose  name,  even,  never  a  Pharisee  knows, 
Is  shown  a  back  seat,  where  the  Publican  goes. 
Our  worship  of  cloth  is  evinced  in  the  street, 
By  petting  or  spurning  the  children  we  meet; 
This  one  in  fine  laces  and  costly  brocade 
Is  a  sweet  little  angel  from  paradise  strayed, 
But  the  same  child  in  "  homespun,"  at  Windsor  or  York, 
Would  be  only  a  log -trotter's  young  one  from  Cork ! 
And  sometimes  't  is  hard  for  school-teachers  to  marshal 
Religion  enough  to  be  wholly  impartial, 
And  I  fear,  though  no  proof  can  be  brought  to  sustain, 
That  even  a  DANA  could  not  well  refrain 
From  lingering  longer  with  mousseline  de  laine, 
Wlien  he  calls  to  see  how  in  their  sums  they  progress, 
Than  he  would  with  the  Miss  in  a  cheap  cotton  dress ! 

But  this  gentle  hint 

Let  no  Editor  print, 

For  Dana's  a  model  of  teachers,  and  hence, 
As  far  as  he  possibly  can,  will  dispense 
With  all  partiality,  except  for  Old  Cents  ! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  217 

0,  men  and  women  !  time  rapidly  flies  ! 

Soon  other  and  solemner  visions  will  rise, 

When  cloth  will  no  longer  dazzle  your  eyes  ! 

You  know  how  rapidly  men's  desires 

Are  sent  along  the  electric  wires; 

Have  heard  of  the  almost  incredible  race 

Of  planets,  and  suns,  and  comets,  through  space ; 

Have  read  of  the  inconceivable  flight 

From  world  to  world  of  a  ray  of  light; 

But  know,  O,  you  whose  only  concern 

Has  been  the  latest  fashion  to  learn, 

That  swifter  than  light,  or  comet,  or  star, 

You  are  hastening  on  to  the  judgment  bar, 

Where  cloth  will  not  count  you  a  row  of  pins, 

In  purchasing  favor,  or  cloaking  your  sins  ! 

Nor  will  you  care  to  make  great  display 

WTien  you  dress  yourselves  for  the  judgment  day, 

Or  turn  to  look  at  yourselves  in  the  glass 

When  off  from  the  stage  of  life  you  pass! 

Of  all  the  poor  souls  on  the  Stygian  shore, 

Who  in  ceaseless  lament  their  past  follies  deplore, 

None  suffer  such  tortures  as  those  who  have  died 

With  their  hearts  and  their  souls  given  over  to  pride ! 

Awake,  then,  0  mortals,  and  learn  to  live  right, 

Ere  you  sink  in  the  gloom  of  that  Hadean  night, 

'Where fashion-plates  never  shall  gladden  your  sight! 

And  now  having  tried 

To  turn  you  from  pride, 

And  the  follies  which  with  it  are  closely  allied, 
The  work  is  accomplished  on  which  I  was  sent 
To  warn  you  of  danger,  and  bid  you  repent ! 


218  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


SLIDING  DOWN  HILL. 

I  used  to  love,  and  I  love  it  still, 

Though  my  head  with  age  is  white, 

To  take  my  sled  and  slide  down  hill 
In  a  clear,  cold,  winter  night : 

And  music  to  me  is  the  riotous  noise 

Of  a  dozen  or  two  of  girls  and  boys, 

While  the  frost-gems  sparkle  in  all  the  trees, 

Bright  as  Arcturus  and  the  Pleiades ! 

Sitting  here  to-night,  bow'd  down  with  years, 

With  thoughts  that  are  backward  cast, 
A  vision  of  sleds  and  sliders  appears, 

As  they  were  in  the  days  that  are  past, 
When  my  sled  on  the  stump  was  made  a  wreck, 
While  two  girl-arms  hung  on  to  my  neck, 
And  we — in  the  boy's  inelegant  phrase  — 
Went  head  over  heels,  in  opposite  ways  ! 

But  the  moral  world  which  is  meant  in  the  rhyme, 
Through  which  we  rapidly  glide, 

Has  its  steep  ascents,  up  which  we  climb, 
And  its  hills,  down  which  we  slide  ! — 

Has  its  ups  and  downs,  as  the  saying  goes  ; 

Has  its  summer  flowers,  and  winter  snows, 

Its  storms  and  sunshine,  fogs  and  blights, 

Its  pleasant  days,  and  starless  nights  ! 

What  a  host  of  sleds  there  are  in  town, 
With  their  names  in  paint  unfurled, 

That,  meteor-like,  are  plunging  down 
The  hills  of  the  moral  world ! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  219 

Behold  the  long  convoy  of  sleds  as  they  go 

Bounding  into  the  plains  below, 

Where  some  "rail-splitter's"  fence  shall  astonish  the  rider} 

When  smash  goes  the  sled,  and — smash  goes  the  slider ! 

When  the  husband  has  his  own  wife  ignor'd, 

With  other  "Cloth"  to  roam; 
Or  spends  those  hours  at  the  gambler's  board 

Which  should  be  spent  at  home ; 
When  he  finds  more  joy  in  lager  beer, 
Than  he  does  in  the  home  that  was  once  so  dear, 
Or  follows  the  demon  that  haunts  the  still ; 
Then,  know  of  a  truth,  he  is  sliding  down  hill ! 

When  wives  (my  own  bids  me  this  suppress, 

But  I  won't  while  truth  is  adored, 
And  she  apes  the  style  of  living  and  dress 

Which  Evarts  alone  can  afford — ) 
When  wives,  as  I  said,  make  tremendous  display 
In  the  street,  of  fine  silks  for  which  labor  must  pay, 
And  hold  the  rich  goods  for  which  White  holds  the  bill — 
I  tell  you  such  wives  are  fast  sliding  down  hill ! 

When  boys,  with  the  foolish  notion  in  mind, 

That  farming  is  ungenteel, 
Leave  plow  and  hoe  and  harrow  behind, 

And  off  to  the  city  wheel, 
They  do  as  COPPER  once  did ;  but  they, 
Like  him,  will  repent,  some  future  day, 
When  they  wake  from  the  dream,  as  they  surely  will, 
To  find  themselves  rapidly  sliding  down  hill ! 


220  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

When  young  men,  deeming  it  vulgar  to  work 

And  earn  the  bread  they  eat, 
Choose  rather  to  follow  the  indolent  Turk, 

And  smoke  their  pipes  in  the  street  5 
Whose  reading  is  trash  which  the  novel  supplies, 
Whose  business  is  peddling  town  scandal  and  lies  ; 
I  always  tell  them,  and  with  right  good  will, 
O,  foolish  young  men  !  you  are  sliding  down  hill ! 

When  men,  whether  members  of  churches  or  not, 

Swell  up  with  inordinate  pride 
Over  dollars  and  acres  dishonestly  got, 

And  turn  from  the  poor  aside ; 
Forgetting  their  highest  earthly  trust, 
Forgetting  that  they  themselves  are  dust  ; 
I  always  say,  let  them  swell  as  they  will, 
That  one  thing  is  sure — they  are  sliding  down  hill ! 

When  women,  the  stars  in  our  social  skies, 

Whose  presence  forever  delights, 
Forgetting  their  babies,  and  puddings,  and  pies, 

Turn  wranglers  for  "women's  rights;" 
I  always  say,  and  the  case  is  plain, 
Though  I  do  it,  I  own,  with  a  deal  of  pain ; 
Good  women,  deny  and  disown  it  who  will, 
You  are  mounted  on  sleds,  and  are  sliding  down  hill ! 

When  pretty  young  girls,  for  whose  dear  sake 

Great  Copper  would  hazard  all, 
Leave  mother  to  wash,  and  iron,  and  bake 

While  they  go  to  dress  for  the  ball; 
Who  deem  it  accomplishment  more  polite 
To  dance,  than  to  darn  their  stockings  at  night, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  221 

Much  as  I  love  them,  I  feel  it  still 

My  duty  to  tell  them  they're  sliding  down  hill ! 

When  John  Brown  fanatics  proclaim  their  desire 

For  freedom  from  sea  to  sea, 
And  would  willingly  see  a  white  nation  expire 

If  a  "nigger"  could  thereby  go  free ; 
When  I  look  out  and  see  these  detestable  gangs 
Disturbing  the  peace  with  raving  harangues, 
I  tell  them,  as  every  good  patriot  will, 
Old  chaps !  you  are  in  for  a  slide  down  hill ! 

When  men  pay  for  "  tracts"  to  send  out  to  Delhi, 

Or  some  other  pagan  shores, 
While  thin,  pale  faces  beseechingly  cry 

For  bread  at  their  very  doors, 
But  cry  in  their  deep  desolation  and  pain, 
As  Lazarus  did  for  crumbs,  in  vain, 
I  must  express  the  belief,  and  will, 
That  these  heathen-savers  are  sliding  down  hill ! 

Then  let  us  so  live,  that  while  life  remains, 

There  shall  come  no  guilty  fears 
To  disturb  the  slide,  which  Nature  ordains, 

Down  into  the  vale  of  years  5 
But  peacefully  there  resigning  life's  breath, 
Way  down  in  the  "  valley  and  shadow  of  Death," 
May  the  Ferryman,  waiting  with  hands  on  the  oar, 
Take  each  of  us  safe  to  the  evergreen  shore  ! 

And  when  the  old  Ferryman  moors  his  bark, 

And  the  oar  lets  fall  from  his  hand ; 
When  we  go  on  shore  to  the  beautiful  park 

In  that  ever  delightful  land  ; 


222  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Where,  free  from  care  as  the  "  miller's  mouse"- 
Our  sleds  left  behind  in  the  narrow  house, 
Our  labor  all  done,  and  done  with  strife, 
May  each  reap  the  fruit  of  a  well-spent  life, 


OUR  WIVES. 

Like  old  monks  in  cells  reclusic, 

Like  the  seasons  without  June, 

Like  a  dance  without  the  music, 

Like  an  organ  out  of  tune, 

Like  a  garden  without  vines, 

Like  a  dinner  without  wines, 

Or  a  ship  without  a  sail, 

Useless,  though  of  finest  pattern, 

Or  a  comet  with  its  tail 

Lost  within  the  rings  of  Saturn, 

Such  is  man  without  a  mate  ! 

Such  is  life's  undual  state  I 

Hopeless,  selfish,  desolate ! 

But  we  have  no  ANGELS  here 

In  this  rudimental  sphere  ; 

Only  WOMEN  live  earth-lives, 

And  from  these  we  choose  our  wives  ! 

When  to-night 

While  I  write, 
Indulging  no  satirical  spite, 
For  love  is  the  poet's  life  and  light  • 
Help  me,  ye  gods,  to  sing  the  song 
Which  no  other  poet  has  dared  to  sing ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  223 

To  step  aside  from  the  flattering  throng, 
And  deal  with  Truth  as  a  sacred  thing ! 

Now  turn  from  Fashion's"  tyrannical  sway, 
And  listen,  0  wives,  to  this  wonderful  lay, 
Suited  to  age,  or  the  fancies  of  youth, 
And  wonderful  most  on  account  of  its  truth  ! 
Poetic  empirics 
Write  dishwater  lyrics, 
And  spread  their  stale  ditties 
All  over  the  sensation  sheets  of  the  cities  ; 
Those  great  blanket  sheets  wherein  follies  and  crimes 
Are  made  the  predominant  themes  of  the  times ! 
But  truth  must  be  told,  and  the  sooner  we  know  it, 
The  better  for  all,  unless  't  is  for  the  poet, 
Who,  like  all  reformers,  may  share  the  sad  doom 
To  have  his  head  broke  with  mop-handle  or  broom  ! 
Be  this  as  it  may,  I  encounter  the  odds, 
And,  like  Hector  in  Homer,  seek  aid  from  the  gods ! 

Wives  by  Fashion's  slaves  ador'd 

Honest  men  can  ill  afford  ; 

Only  the  accomplish'd  rogue  ! 

Keeps  the  kind  now  most  in  vogue  I 
Wives  like  these,  with  cash  in  the  locker, 
You  can  buy  of  White,  or  Stocker ! 
Not  that  these  respectable  dealers 
Have  ever  been  "  men  and  women  stealers," 
Or  that  they  sell  you  handsome  Dianas, 
As  they  do  way  down  in  the  Carolinas; 
Or  that  within  these  marts  of  fashion 
Souls  are,  as  in  marts  Circassian, 
Bought  and  sold, 
And  paid  for  in  gold ; 


224  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  the  truth  is,  though  to  say  it  I  'in  loth, 

The  wives  now  in  fashion  are  made  up  of  cloth  ! 

And  hence  I  assert,  at  the  risk  of  my  life, 

That  the  merchants  I  mention,  can  sell  you  a  wife  ! 

That  is,  they  will  sell  you  the  ribbons  and  lace, 

(A  great  earthen  doll  will  do  for  the  face,) 

And  then  in  the  bill  let  them  slyly  insert 

Silk  hose,  silk  elastics,  and  skeleton  skirt, 

With  nine  or  ten  dresses  of  finest  selection, 

And  wadding  to  form  each  enticing  projection  ! 

From  flowers  artificial,  select  a  rich  cluster, 

Get  cloth  for  the  cloak,  and  cloth  for  the  duster, 

Bonnets  and  gaiters,  and  two  styles  of  shawl, 

One  for  the  spring,  and  one  for  the  fall  ! 

But  further  I  will  not  name  item  by  item, 

Lest  the  purchaser's  bill,  footed  up,  should  affright  him  ; 

But  add  a  small  trifle,  say  twenty-five  dollars, 

For  extras,  like  lavender,  musk,  and  lace  c  ollars  ! 

And  ten  dollars  more  for  a  cameo  pin, 

To  be  had  of  my  friend,  the  watchmaker,  Winn  ! 

Now,  my  own  dear  wife, 

Looking  over  my  shoulder  and  threatening  my  life, 
With  eyes  flashing  fire,  like  the  magnetic  pole, 
Asks  where  is  the  heart,  and  where  is  the  soul, 
That  is  this  great  pile  of  dry  goods  to  control  ? 

Hearts,  dearest  Kate, 
Said  I,  like  a  martyr  resigned  to  his  fate, 
In  "  circles  of  fashion,"  are  quite  out  of  date  ; 
And  as  for  souls,  you  might  just  as  well 
Look  for  saints  where  the  Cannibals  dwell, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  225 

Or  go  down  into  Hades  for  Piety, 

As  look  for  souls  in  "  our  best  society  !" 

Stop  there  !  hold  ! 

Cried  Mrs.  Copper, 

You  have  told 

A  monstrous  whopper ! 
When  I  do,  sweet  wife,  I  said, 
May  Jove  aim  a  thunderbolt  straight  at  my  head, 
And  set  me  on  the  dismal  road 
That  leads  to  Pluto's  hot  abode ; 
Into  whose  realms  of  smoke  and  fire 
Potter  half  scared  the  valiant  Pryor  ! 

0,  I  have  sold  cow  after  cow 
To  purchase  cloth  wherein  to  bow, 
With  animals,  at  Fashion's  shrine, 
Far  less  intelligent  than  kine  ! 
And  gone  is,  0  the  sad  reflection, 
My  numismatical  collection, 
Laid  by  for  future,  days  and  rainy, 
To  grace  the  cabinet  of  Dana  ! 
And  now,  O  wives,  in  closing  the  song, 
Forgive  the  poet  if  anything  wrong 
Has  entered  his  head, 
In  what  has  been  said, 
And  pray  to  the  gods,  who  favor  the  fair, 
Who  answered  the  Argive  mother's  prayer, 

At  her  earnest  call, 

That  they  may  protect,  and  defend  you  all ! 
And  remember  that  cloth  you  are,  but  learn, 
That  unto  cloth  you  will  not  return ! 
Only  this  will  be  said, 


226  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

When  on  the  earth-cushion  you  pillow  your  head, 
From  the  service  ordained  by  the  priests  for  the  dead, 
In  the  name  of  the  One  who  is  always  just, 
c'  Ashes  to  ashes,  and  dust  to  dust !" 


SUCCESS. 

That  man  is  not,  in  any  true  sense  of  the  word,  most  successful  who  can  count 
out  the  greatest  number  of  dollars.— REV.  S.  G.  ABBOTT. 

What  is  success  ?  is  it  to  pile 

Dollar  on  dollar,  mountain  high  ? 
To  gain  the  world's  approving  smile, 

And  leave  the  soul  to  starve  and  die  ? 

Men  count  success  by  dollars  gained, 

No  matter  by  what  fiendish  arts ; 
Whether  by  fraud  or  trick  obtained, 

Or  coined  from  crushed  and  bleeding  hearts ! 

Honors  on  Wealth  the  world  bestows 

Less  only  than  on  the  Most  High  ; 
And  when  in  death  rich  eyelids  close, 

Marble  perpetuates  the  lie  ! 

The  church  salvation's  seal  will  place 
On  soulless  knaves  to  share  their  gain  ; 

Knaves  at  whose  doors  the  thin,  pale  face 
Of  Want  has  sought  relief  in  vain  ! 

Well,  be  it  so !  let  misers  clutch 

Their  bags  of  gold  with  nervous  grasp, 

Until  the  hour  when  Death's  cold  touch 
Shall  sternly  bid  those  hands  unclasp! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  227 

Hug  the  rich  treasure  till  you  tread 

Alone  the  valley  dark  and  drear : 
Die  with  the  orphan's. cry  for  bread 

Still  ringing  in  your  dying  ear ! 

Then  wake  to  hear,  when  souls  shall  meet, 
Where  stocks  shall  fall  and  gold  shall  fail, 

The  dismal  halls  of  hell  repeat 

The  echoes  of  that  mournful  wail ! 


THE  TOBACCO  FIEND. 

With  faith  yet  unimpaired  in  good, 
Life's  morning  sun  still  shining  fair, 

Before  I  knew  that  devils  could 

Assume  the  garb  that  angels  wear  ; 

A  fiend  passed  through  the  gate  that  swung 
To  guard  the  Temple  of  my  soul, 

With  friendly  message  on  his  tongue, 
As  Satan  into  Eden  stole  ! 

Endorsed  by  men  of  high  renown, 
The  living  great  and  honored  dead, 

Worthy  he  seemed  to  wear  the  crown 
That  glittered,  star-like,  on  his  head. 

His  mission  was,  he  meekly  said, 
To  banish  discord,  pain  and  strife; 

A  soothing  influence  to  spread, 
And  calm  the  troubled  sea  of  life ! 


228  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

From  underneath  his  kingly  cloak 
He  drew  a  plant  and  bid  me  taste  ! 

I  yielded — slept — from  dreams  awoke — 
Life's  future  lay  a  dreary  waste  ! 

He  laid  aside  the  garments  bright 

That  had,  till  now,  his  person  screened, 

And  then,  to  my  astonished  sight, 
Uprose  the  vile  Tobacco  Fiend ! 

Amazed,  I  bid  the  monster  quit 

The  Temple  which  his  presence  cursed ! 

Too  late !  the  fires  of  hell  were  lit, 
And  I  stood  in  the  smoke  immersed/ 

With  will  dethroned  and  vigor  lost, 
No  strength  the  demon  to  dispute, 

Behold,  Oh,  man  !  the  fearful  cost 
Of  tasting  the  forbidden  fruit! 

Come  to  the  ruined  Temple,  come ! 

And,  round  its  crumbling  walls  convened. 
Learn,  as  you  shun  the  demon,  Rum, 

To  shun  the  vile  TOBACCO  FIEND  ! 


GEORGE  P.  HAYES. 

Sadly,  0  Sexton,  toll  thy  bell, 
Mournfully  bid  its  iron  tongue 

Speak  in  unison  with  the  swell 

Of  hearts,  by  a  sudden  anguish  wrung. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  229 

Sound  it  along  the  mountain  rills, 

Where  proud  old  Ascutney  lifts  its  head  ; 

Sound  it  through  all' the  echoing  hills, 
That  he,  the  friend  we  honored,  is  dead. 

A  shadow  upon  our  path  is  thrown 

By  the  new-made  grave  our  tears  have  wet, 

And  our  world  has  visibly  darker  grown, 
As  if  a  star  had  suddenly  set. 

Brother,  farewell,  until  we  meet 

Over  on  yonder  immortal  shore, 
Where  parting  messages  none  repeat, 

And  the  tolling  bell  is  heard  no  more. 


GOD. 

All  around  us,  everywhere, 
On  the  ocean,  in  the  air, 
Fields,  and  where  the  forests  nod, 
Stand  the  witnesses  for  God  : 

Stars  of  everlasting  light, 
Blazing  on  the  brow  of  night, 
His  eternal  glories  hymn 
Where  the  Doubter's  eye  grows  dim ! 

Every  single  wildwood  flower, 
Though  it  blooms  but  for  an  hour ; 
Every  tree,  and  every  leaf 
Speaks  rebuke  to  Unbelief! 


230  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Nature,  listening  to  the  doubt, 
Wakes  the  planets  with  her  shout, 
Rouses,  and,  with  heart  and  soul, 
Thunders  God  from  pole  to  pole. 


A  WINTER'S  NIGHT. 

God  bless  the  friendless  poor  to-night, 
For  cold  and  dark  the  storm  is  sweeping ; 

Obscured  is  every  orb  of  light, 

And  darkness  o'er  the  world  is  creeping ! 

By  many  a  lone  and  cheerless  hearth 

The  eyes  that  have  grown  dim  with  sorrow, 

Shall  close,  to  ope  no  more  on  earth. 
Before  the  coming  of  to-morrow ! 

By  scores  I  see  them  yielding  up 

The  forms,  by  hunger  worn  and  wasted ; 

But  death  is  not  the  bitterest  cup 

Which  pale  and  dying  lips  have  tasted  ! 

Stand  where  some  mother's  work  is  done, 

Whose  tears  are  with  last  moments  blending ; 

She  prays  ;  but  not  that  she  may  shun 
The  grave,  to  which  her  feet  are  tending ! 

No  !  self  and  pain  and  death  forgot, 
Her  child  awakes  her  last  emotion ! 

To  him,  more  than  to  life's  sad  lot, 
She  clings  with  angel-like  devotion. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  231 

Earth's  truest  heroes  may  be  found 
On  thin  and  cold  straw  couches  lying ; 

And  holy  memories  gather  round 

Where  want  is  toiling,  struggling,  dying ! 

The  song  begun — shall  end  with  prayer 
To  Thee,  O  God,  whose  love  is  endless, 

That  Thou,  through  night  and  storm,  wilt  spare 
The  poor,  the  homeless,  and  the  friendless ! 


MISS  L.  L.  FLETCHER, 

PRECEPTRESS  IN  NORTHFIELD  GRADED  SCHOOL. 


DEPARTED. 

On  the  hill  the  aspens  quiver, 
And  the  sunlight  gilds  the  river 
Sweeping  on,  and  on  forever 

In  its  pathway  to  the  sea; 
In  the  elms  the  birds  are  singing, 
On  the  turf  the  violets  springing, 
To -the  breeze  their  sweets  are  flinging, 

As  they  did  for  you  and  me. 

As  of  old,  the  fragrant  clover 

Dots  the  little  hillocks  over, 

Where  the  brown  bees  hum  and  hover, 

Where  we  played  in  childish  glee. 
As  of  old  the  lights  and  shadows 
Chase  each  other  o'er  the  meadows, 
O'er  the  grassy,  verdant  meadows, 

Where  we  wandered,  gay  and  free. 


232  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

All  the  stars  shine  just  as  brightly, 
Beam  and  smile  upon  me  nightly, 
And  the  moonlight  falls  as  whitely 

On  the  hill  and  on  the  sea ; 
But  my  tears  are  sadly  flowing, 
For  my  heart  is  crushed  with  knowing, 
That  the  green  grass,  softly  growing, 

Hides  forever  you  from  me. 


LAMOILLE. 

The  world  is  proud  of  its  rivers, 
The  mighty,  grand  and  free, 

And  their  praise  is  a  theme  forever — 
I  bring  my  praise  to  thee. 

Thou  art  not  named  in  story, 

A  stranger  art  to  fame, 
No  deeds  of  war  or  glory 

We  mingle  with  thy  name ; 

But,  of  all  the  mighty  rivers, 
That  haste  to  meet  the  sea, 

Not  one  to  me  shall  ever 
Be  beautiful  like  thee. 

For  my  childhood  passed  beside  thee, 
With  its  sunshine  and  its  song ; 

And  what  the  heart  first  loveth, 
It  loveth  well  and  long. 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  233 

No  moss-grown  ivied  castle 

Hangs  o'er  thy  sparkling  tide, 
In  grand  and  gray  old  ruin, 

Kecalling  pomp  and  pride  : 

But  sweet  and  beauteous  daughters, 

And  hardy  sons  of  toil 
Have  a  home  beside  thy  waters, 

0,  beautiful  Lamoille. 

I  would  dwell  beside  thee  ever, 

And  by  the  crystal  wave 
Of  my  dear  Green-Mountain  river, 

Let  them  make  my  peaceful  grave. 


WHY  DO  THEY  COME  TO  US  IN  DREAMS? 

Why  do  they  come  to  us  in  dreams  ? 

Sweet  voices  hushed  for  many  a  year  ; 
Those  tones  of  tenderness  and  love, 

That  once  't  was  blessedness  to  hear. 
The  echo  lingers  softly  near, 

As  glad  we  wake  at  morning's  beams, 
But  their  tones  ne'er  greet  our  waking  ear — 

Why  do  they  come  to  us  in  dreams  ? 

Why  do  we  see  them  in  our  dreams, 
Those  forms  that  faded  long  ago  ? 

Above  them  summer  flowers  have  waved 
And  o'er  them  drifted  winter's  snow  : 


234  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

We  Ve  vainly  watched,  at  early  morn, 
And  waited  long  at  twilight's  gleam ; 

But  they  never  greet  our  longing  eyes — 
Why  do  they  come  to  us  in  dreams  ? 

Why  do  we  see  them  in  our  dreams — 

Bright  scenes  our  happy  childhood  knew  ? 
Why  clasp  the  hands  we  kno\v  are  cold 

And  find  them  still  all  warm  and  true  ? 
0,  Time  and  Change  may  rob  our  lives 

Of  all  that  best  and  brightest  seems; 
But  angels  keep  the  treasures  lost, 

And  bear  them  back  to  us  in  dreams. 


THE  AUTUMN  KAIK 

Softly,  wearily, 
Sadly,  drearily, 
Falleth  the  autumn  rain ; 
Keeping  the  time 
Of  a  measured  rhyme, 
Swelling  and  sinking  again 
In  cadence  solemn,  but  strangely  sweet, 
Like  the  echoless  tread  of  angel  feet 
As  they  come  and  go  in  dreams. 

Softly,  wearily, 
Sadly,  drearily, 
Falleth  the  autumn  rain, 
Falleth  like  tears 
For  the  vanished  years, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  235 

Coming,  ah,  never  again — 
Tears  for  the  beautiful  hopes  that  fled, 
Tears  for  the  summer  that  lieth  dead 
In  her  shroud  of  -withered  flowers. 

Softly,  wearily, 
Sadly,  drearily, 
Falleth  the  autumn  rain, 
Out  on  the  hill, 
The  vale  and  the  rill, 
And,  away  o'er  the  misty  main, 
Where  the  dim-seen  ships  go  to  and  fro, 
As  human  souls,  in  a  night  of  woe, 
Grope  darkly  amid  their  pain. 

Softly,  wearily, 
Sadly,  drearily, 
Falleth  the  autumn  rain; 
On  the  low  bed 
Of  the  cherished  dead, 
Kesting  from  care  and  pain ; 
Falleth  on  grass,  where  it  fell  of  yore, 
Falleth  on  graves,  that  never  before 
Were  watered  by  aught  but  tears. 


236  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

A.  S.  NICHOLS, 

OF    DANBY. 

BOAST  NOT  OF  TO-MORROW. 

Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow — 
Thou  knowest  not  what  it  may  be  ; 

To-day  is  sunshine — to-morrow 
May  bring  a  dark  cloud  over  thee. 

Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow ; 

Of  what  thou  may'st  eat,  drink  or  wear ; 
To-day  thou  hast  joy — to-morrow 

May  find  thee  in  darkest  despair. 

Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow, 

Though  thou  hast  great  riches  to-day — 

To-morrow  thou  may'st  be  a  beggar, 
And  thy  riches  have  all  flown  away. 

Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow, 
Nor  think  of  the  past  as  a  dream : 

The  present  time  only  is  ours, 
The  future  by  all  is  unseen. 

Boast  not  thyself  of  to-morrow, 

But  thank  God  for  blessings,  to-day — 

To-morrow  may  bear  thee  from  earth ; 
Thy  days  are  fast  fleeting  away. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  237 

GOING  HOME. 

The  tiny  brook  running 

So  still,  noiselessly,  . 
Ever  onward  is  flowing — 

Going  home  to  the  sea. 

Bright  flowers  are  blooming, 

But  scarce  have  their  birth, 
Ere  they  are  seen  drooping — 

Going  home  to  the  earth. 

And  man,  too,  is  falling — 

Must  lie  'neath  the  sod ; 
His  spirit,  unfettered, 

Goes  home  to  its  God. 


THE  BEAUTIFUL. 

There  's  much  of  beauty  scattered  wide, 

That  mortals  fail  to  see ; 
In  glories  rare  is  nature  crowned; 

Her  charms,  immensity. 

In  mortal  haste  we  pass  them  by ; 

The  beautiful  and  grand — 
In  fancy,  dwell  on  beauties  rare, 

Of  other  climes  and  land. 

To  other  lands  we  need  not  foam, 

For  nature,  ever  true, 
Has  dealt  us  out  its  beauties  rare, 

If  we  but  deign  to  view. 


238  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  motley  throng 

Who  tread  the  busy  street, 
There  's  beauty  in  the  festive  halls, 

And  where  the  lowly  meet. 

There  's  beauty  in  the  captive's  cell, 
Where  sunbeams  never  play — 

There  's  beauty  in  the  house  of  prayer, 
Where  Christians  meet  to  pray. 

On  battle  fields,  in  guarded  tent, 
Where  the  weary  soldier  dwells, 

In  the  damp,  cold  mine,  or  the  fisher's  hut, 
The  tide  of  beauty  swells. 

It  rises  high  with  every  prayer, 

With  every  sigh  or  groan, 
For  every  heart  that  ever  beat 

Has  beauty  of  its  own. 


THE  LAND  OF  THE  GOLD. 

My  brother,  my  brother,  thou  art  now  far  away 
From  all  the  loved  scenes  of  thy  childhood's  bright  day ; 
Like  a  lamb  thou  'st  strayed  from  a  kind  shepherd's  fold, 
And  gone  far  away  to  the  land  of  the  gold. 

Thou  'st  left  thy  sweet  home,, near  the  old  Otter  Creek, 
In  which  sports  the  trout  so  shining  and  sleek ; 
Where  the  Green  Mountain  stands  in  majesty  bold, 
And  gone  far  away  to  the  land  of  the  gold. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  239 

Thou  'st  left  a  kind  father,  whose  heart  turns  to  thee — 
To  his  loved  boy,  where  'er  he  may  be ; 
His  heart  will  grow  warm,  now  so  cheerless  and  cold, 
When  thou  shalt  return  from  the  land  of  the  gold. 

Return,  0,  return  to  thy  home  once  again, 
Where  sisters  will  greet  thee,  and  many  a  friend ; 
And  brothers,  impatient  thy  form  to  behold, 
Will  welcome  thee  back  from  the  land  of  the  gold. 


RETROSPECT. 

What  if  I  could  begin  anew 
This  life,  which  now  is  nearly  through, 
To  live  my  transient  childhood  o'er — 
In  youth's  sunshine  to  bask  once  more  ; 
To  live  again,  to  middle  life, 
Those  days  of  joy,  of  toil  and  strife  ; 
Had  I  the  right,  what  think  ye  then, 
Would  I  live  o'er  that  life  again  ? 
Those  childhood  days,  so  dark  and  drear, 
Would  quickly  write  the  answer  here ; 
And  youthful  days,  more  sad  than  gay, 
Would  surely  give  the  answer,  nay  ; 
And  manhood  would  repeat  the  strain — 
Live  thou  not  o'er  thy  life  again. 


240  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


I  'M  SEEKING  A  TREASURE. 

I  'm  seeking  a  treasure 

Of  silver  and  gold, 
To  sustain  me  in  life, 

When  feeble  and  old. 

I  'm  seeking  a  treasure — 

A  diadem  bright, 
Awarded  to  those 

Who  practice  the  right. 

I  'm  seeking  a  treasure, 
A  pearl  of  great  worth ; 

A  foretaste  of  Heaven 
Whilst  here  upon  earth. 

I  'm  seeking  a  treasure, 

A  Heavenly  store  ; 
A  feast  for  the  soul 

On  eternity's  shore. 


OUR  COUNTRY  IN  1861. 

Our  country  !  our  country  !  "the  land  of  the  free," 
There  is  woe  in  the  future — a  judgment  for  thee; 
For  thy  sins  are  as  scarlet,  and  legion  their  name, 
Thou  hast  stooped  from  thy  glory  to  revel  in  shame. 

How  oft  the  vain  boasting  of  freedom  is  heard, 

How  many  a  temple  to  false  gods  is  reared, 

And  freedom's  cry  echoing  from  sea  unto  sea, 

Whilst  the  poor  slave  is  shrieking,  "  No  freedom  for  me. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  241 

The  fetters  are  galling  their  hands  and  their  feet, 
They  are  bartered  and  sold  like  cattle  and  sheep, 
And  scourging  and  whipping  their  portion  must  be, 
Till  our  arms  break  their  ^bonds,  and  bid  them  go  free. 

Our  country  !  our  country  !  thy  boasting  is  vain ; 
The  gallows  thou  'rt  rearing,  and  victims  are  slain ; 
The  war-shout  is  ringing  on  hills  and  in  vales — 
Thy  sons  thou  art  selling,  like  cotton  in  bales. 

Shall  sins  such  as  these  go  unpunished?  ah,  no ! 
You  surely  must  reap,  yet,  of  that  which  you  sow : 
With  your  brother's  blood  you  make  red  the  sod, 
But  judgment  will  come,  as  there  liveth  a  God. 


THE  DYING  SOLDIER. 

A  soldier  on  the  battle-field 

Lay  writhing  in  his  pain  ; 
Around  him,  there,  on  every  side, 

Lay  heaps  of  ghastly  slain. 
Dumb  silence  reigned  throughout  the  field- 

The  battle's  strife  was  o'er; 
And  many  a  valiant  soldier  boy 

Was  weltering  in  his  gore. 
A  rider  chanced  to  pass  that  way, 

As  the  evening  shades  did  fall, 
And,  stooping,  gave  a  list'ning  ear 

To  the  hero's  dying  call — 
"  My  soul  is  free  from  mortal  fear, 

While  bleeding  here  alone  ; 


242  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  pray  tliee  take  my  dying  words 

To  my  Green-Mountain  home. 
My  mother  loved  her  only  son, 

To  the  extent  that  mortals  know; 
Say  to  her,  I  will  feel  that  love, 

In  the  land  where  I  shall  go. 
Tell  her  I  would  not  she  should  weep 

O'er  my  untimely  end — 
To  put  her  trust  in  Him,  alone, 

Who  is  the  widow's  friend. 
Tell  her  I  died  as  die  the  brave, 

Who  fight  their  country's  cause, 
A  nation's  birth-right  bound  to  save, 

And  sustain  her  wholesome  laws. 
Now  hasten  to  thy  post  again, 

And  heed  thy  country's  call, 
Until  the  foe  shall  bite  the  dust — 

There  's  work  for  one  and  all. 
And  when  this  cruel  war  is  o'er, 

Bear  home  my  last  request — 
My  eyes  are  dim,  my  work  is  done, 

I  'm  going  home  to  rest." 


MY  VALLEY  HOME. 

My  home  is  encircled  by  mountains  and  hills, 

From  whose  rugged  sides  flow  bright,  sparkling  rills ; 

Whose  top  by  the  spruce  and  fir-tree  are  clothed, 

Beneath  whose  dark  shadows  the  wild  beast  doth  rove — 

Away  from  the  hunter,  secluded,  they  roam, 

Nor  dare  to  intrude  at  my  sweet,  mountain  home. 

Sweet  home  in  the  valley,  I  oft  dream  of  thee, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  243 

As  when,  tiny  boys,  my  dear  brother  and  me 

So  gay  and  light  hearted,  would  wander  away, 

To  roam  in  the  wild-wood  through  the  long,  summer  day. 

Oh  !  there  's  not  on  this  earth,  another  such  spot, 

As  the  vale  that  contains  my  own  native  cot. 

With  forest  and  river,  and  scenery  sublime, 

With  its  broad-spreading  oak,  and  proud,  waving  pine  ; 

The  roar  of  the  brook,  from  its  height  tumbling  down, 

Can  ne'er  be  surpassed  by  a  musical  sound. 

Though  others  may  boast  of  their  homes  in  the  West, 

My  Green-Mountain  home  is  the  purest  and  best ; 

And  where  'er  I  go,  in  whatever  clime, 

I  see  no  such  home,  as  the  sweet  home  of  mine. 


MRS.  C.  A.  OGDEN, 

OP  BOSTON. 

Mrs.  Ogden  is  a  native  of  Georgia,  Vt.  and,  in  1867,  published  a 
prose  volume,  entitled  "  Into  the  Light,"  that  has  been  very  well 
received,  by  the  literary  world. 

SONG  OF  THE  WATER  DROPS. 

"  Go  forth  under  the  open  sky,  and  list 
To  Nature's  teachings,  while  from  all  around — 
Earth,  and  her  waters,  and  the  depths  of  air — 
Comes  a  still  voice."— BRYANT. 

From  the  ocean,  the  river  and  fountain 

We  rise  in  the  mists  of  the  morn, 
And  the  dark  frowning  brow  of  the  mountain 

With  a  silvery  garland  adorn. 


244  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

With  dew-drops  we  baptize  the  blossom, 
And  bathe  the  young  leaflets  with  care, 

And  gem  the  wild  floweret's  bosom 
With  jewels  surpassingly  fair. 

With  a  wild  laugh,  we  sport  in  the  sunbeam, 
In  the  brook,  o'er  the  cataract's  side ; 

Or  caressingly  woo  from  the  lone  stream 
The  lilies  which  bend  o'er  our  tide. 

We  clothe,  in  soft  haze,  hill,  city  and  plain, 
And  hide  in  its  gray-tissued  veil  ; 

Anon  we  descend  in  jubilant  rain, 

Bearing  Summer's  warm  breath  on  the  gale. 

Then  in  musical  cadence  we  patter 
Refreshingly  o'er  the  green  earth, 

And  from  censers  of  silver  spray  scatter 
Perfumes  at  the  wild  blossom's  birth. 

When  forests  and  glades  'neath  our  showers, 

In  glittering  loveliness  lie, 
We  borrow  the  hues  of  the  flowers, 

And  a  rainbow  form  in  the  sky. 

There  we  mirror  the  love  and  the  glory 

Of  a  promise  to  earth's  children  given ; 
And  tell  the  sweet,  wonderful  story 
Of  a  covenant  written  in  heaven. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  245 


THE  SONG  OF  NIGHT. 

I  come,  I  come  from  the  land  of  dreams, 
And  shadows  I  throw  on  the  day's  last  beams ; 
I  come  at  the  gentle  twilight  hour. 
And  softly  close  the  bright-leafd  flower. 

I  steal  from  the  lake  and  winding  stream 
The  silvery  glow  of  the  sun's  last  gleam  ; 
I  breathe  on  the  crest  of  the  gorgeous  cloud, 
And  its  gilded  head  is  in  dimness  bowed. 

The  fleecy  foam  of  the  ocean  wave, 
As  the  sandy  shore  its  waters  lave, 
But  sparkles  dim,  as  sea  and  land 
Are  curtained  by  my  sable  hand. 

On  the' violet's  breast,  on  the  beechen  tree, 
I  fold  the  wing  of  the  murmuring  bee  ; 
I  check  the  bound  of  the  graceful  fawn, 
And  his  bright  eye  close  till  the  opening  dawn. 

The  liquid  notes  of  the  woodland  bird 
At  my  approach  are  faintly  heard  ; 
As  sinking  'neath  the  dark  green  leaves, 
Her  parting  song  she  sweetly  breathes  : 

My  ringer  still  on  the  infant  I  lay, 
And  close  his  lids  in  the  midst  of  play ; 
And  I  gently  steal  on  the  maiden  fair, 
As  she  softly  murmurs  her  evening  prayer. 

At  my  coming  the  peasant  seeks  his  cot, 
And  in  peaceful  dreams  are  his  cares  forgot ; 


246  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

While  the  sons  of  toil  their  labors  close, 
And  a  refuge  find  in  deep  repose. 

My  shadowy  mantle  around  me  I  fold, 
As  the  mountain  mists  are  backward  rolled ; 
When  morning's  light  o'er  my  pathway  is  cast, 
I  vanish  from  earth — a  dream  of  the  past. 


LAMENT  OF  COPWAY,  THE  INDIAN  CHIEF, 

My  heart  is  in  the  forest  shade, 

In  the  great  temples  God  has  made, 

Where  once  in  youth  I  stood; 
I  see  again  the  gushing  fountain — 
I  stand  upon  the  lonely  mountain, 

Or  stem  the  rushing  flood  : 

Or  in  a  birch  canoe  I  glide, 
Across  the  broad  lake's  level  tide  ; 

Or  down  the  wild-wood  stream, 
Whose  waters  from  my  flashing  oar 
In  sheets  of  silver  brightly  pour, 

Beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam, 

Which  'mong  the  pine  and  maple  leaves, 
A  bright,  fantastic  garland  weaves, 

Of  mingled  light  and  shade  ; 
And  rocks,  and  hills,  and  forests,  seem 
As  the  "  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream," 

Which  fairy  spells  have  made, 

'Tis  but  a  dream !  Those  forests  grand 
No  longer  crown  my  native  land 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  247 

With  beauty  wild  and  bold ; 
Nature's  majestic  altars  fell 
Before  the  white  man's  potent  spell — 

Her  grandeurV  bought  and  sold. 

Fled  are  the  glories  of  the  chase  ! 
Our  warriors  brave — the  Indian  race — 

Are  passing  fast  away  ; 
Death's  angel  o'er  the  mountains  sped. 
And  pestilence  with  dark  wing  spread 

The  emblems  of  decay. 

The  pale  face  shouts  from  vale  and  hill, 
The  warning  cry  of  "westward  still !" 

Sadly  we  hasten  on — 
Thus  do  our  fated  race  depart, 
With  dewy  eye  and  breaking  heart, 

Towards  the  setting  sun. 

Our  wigwam,  'neath  the  beechen  shade, 
Stood  where  in  sunny  youth  I  played 

Beside  the  rushing  river. 
Those  waterfalls — the  cool,  green  wood— 
The  quiet  mountain  solitude — 

They  haunt  my  spirit  ever  ! 

Scenes  of  the  past !  0,  who  can  tell 
How  sadly  falls  that  word,  Farewell, 

On  throbbing  heart  and  brain  ? 
Like  fragrance  to  the  faded  flowers, 
So  clings  my  heart  to  those  past  hours— 

I  live  them  o'er  again. 

Then,  white  man,  teach  us  how  to  till 
The  soil  we  love,  with  science — skill — 


248  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  on  the  verdant  sod 
Our  forest  sons  will. bow  the  knee 
With  heart  less  wild,  but  spirit  free, 

Before  the  Christian's  God. 


EARTH  AND  HEAVEN. 

0  world  !  so  few  the  years  we  live, 
Would  that  the  life  which  thou  dost  give 
Were  life  indeed! — LONGFELLOW. 

If  the  dear  ties  of  earth  were  not  often  broken, 

And  the  forms  that  we  love  turned  not  coldly  away  5 
If  the  sigh  and  the  tear  were  not  sadly  a  token 

That  the  fairest  and  brightest  of  things  will  decay  ; 
If  memory  wept  not  over  hopes  early  faded, 

O'er  visions  of  beauty  too  lovely  to  last, 
And  the  bright  dreams  of  life  werer  not  darkly  shaded 

By  the  sad,  unavailing  regrets  of  the  past ; 

If  the  friendships  we  form  did  not  often  conceal 

Distrust  in  the  heart,  'neath  professions  of  love, 
And  Time,  in  his  progress,  half  mocking,  reveal 

That  the  idols  we  worship  will  treacherous  prove  ; 
Most  dear,  then,  would  life  be !  sweet  truth  and  affection 

Would  clasp  hand  in  hand,  to  bless  and  to  cheer — 
The  heart  would  delight  in  glad  retrospection — 

The  eye  moisten  only  with  pleasure's  bright  tear. 

But  vain  is  the  thought !  The  fond  heart  will  never 
Unclouded  peace  find  in  this  mutable  sphere, 

Where  the  stern  miser,  Death,  is  gathering  ever 
Life's  fairest  blosoms,  the  valued  and  dear, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  249 

Where  love,  joy,  and  sorrow,  like  meteors  fleeting, 
Successively  pass  o'er  the  soul's  troubled  sky  ; 

And  time  by  its  changes  is  ever  repeating 

"  That  hopes  fondly  cherish' d  like  phantoms  will  fly." 

Then  blest  is  the  promise— the  hope  of  a  clime— 

Where  again  live  in  beauty  the  heart's  withered  flowers, 
Where  reposes  forever  the  great  scythe  of  Time, 

And  Oblivion's  mantle  fells  over  past  hours  ; 
Where  Death,  ever  conquered,  resigns  his  dominion, 

And  clearly  revealed  are  life's  mysteries  high  ; 
Where  Faith  meekly  folds  her  once  soaring  pinion, 

And  the  heart  never  mourns  over  love's  broken  tie. 


KEPOSE  IN  CHRIST. 

Can  earth  contain  a  greater  bliss, 
A  holier,  dearer  joy  than  this, 

To  have  in  Christ  a  friend  ? 
To  know  His  care,  to  see  His  face, 
In  each  event  His  love  to  trace, 
As  gentle  dews  of  heavenly  grace 

Upon  the  soul  descend  ? 

They  bid  life's  vexing  cares  depart, 
And  peaceful  trust  pervades  the  heart 

That  doth  in  Christ  repose. 
Our  follies,  faults  and  sins  forgiven, 
The  darkest  cloud  by  light  is  riven; 
We  have  a  foretaste  here  of  heaven ; 

Its  golden  gates  unclose. 


250  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Our  rich  inheritance  seems  near; 
The  stars  of  Faith,  serenely  clear 

Upon  our  being  shine. 
A  rest,  unknown  before,  we  find : 
Pure  aspirations  fill  the  mind ; 
We  see  the  uplifted  cross  entwined 

With  beams  of  light  divine. 

A  glorious  promise,  full  and  free, 
That  "  where  Christ  is  we  too  shall  be" 

Who  have  His  name  confessed, 
Points  upward  to  a  happier  clime, 
A  life  eternal  and  sublime, 
Beyond  the  changing  scenes  of  time, 

Where  weary  ones  find  rest. 

0  hope  divine  !  0  life  above  ! 
Bought  by  a  Saviour's  matchless  love; 

We  bless  His  grace  which  flows 
In  "living  waters,"  fountains  free! 
Where  all  who  will  may  ransomed  be, 
And,  blest  throughout  eternity, 

In  Christ,  our  Lord,  repose. 


TO  THE  DELAWARE  RIVER. 

Roll  onward  in  thy  course,  majestic  river  ! 

Through  mingled  scenes  of  nature  and  of  art, 
Ever  moving,  ever  changing,  resting  never — 

Like  the  affections  of  the  human  heart. 
E'en  while  I  gaze  thy  bright  waves  seem  to  start 

Forth  into  being,  'neath  the  sunlight's  ray — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  251 

Anon,  thy  waters  somber  hues  impart. 

And  shadows  o'er  thy  mirrored  surface  play, 
Changeful  as  the  rainbow  hues  of  man's  eventful  day. 

Beneath  mine  eyes  how  passing  fair  the  scene ; 

Around  me  rise  the  busy  haunts  of  men  ; 
The  sloping  meadow,  clad  in  emerald  green ; 

The  shadowy  wood,  the  deep  and  mossy  glen, 
And  far  beyond,  thy  silver  stream  again 

Is  brightly  winding.     Oft,  at  even  time, 
Methinks  I  hear  thy  wild  wave's  choral  strain 

Answer  the  distant  ocean's  ceasless  chime 
Which,  from  its  mighty  caves,  calls  thee  in  tones  sublime. 

But  where  are  now  thy  foster-sons,  proud  river  ? 

Long  since  has  passed  away  that  warrior  band ; 
Gone  are  the  spirits  daring,  gone  forever — 

But  yet  their  deeds,  so  fiercely,  sternly  grand, 
Are  oft  by  memory  painted,  while  the  hand 

Of  dark  oblivion  draws  its  misty  veil 
O'er  all  their  wrongs.     This  spacious  land, 

Their  rightful  heritage,  tells  not  the  tale, 
That  their  oppressors'  might  o'er  justice  did  prevail. 

And  yet,  fair  stream,  thy  course  is  still  the  same, 

And  man's  dark  passions  hold  o'er  thee  no  sway — 
The  shout  of  rage,  the  pealing  trump  of  fame, 

All  pass  unheeded,  as  the  meteor's  ray. 
Day  after  day  thou  'rt  onward — nought  will  stay 

Thy  rapid  current,  e'en  as  Time's  resistless  will, 
Which  through  all  ages  spurns  the  least  delay, 

And  hastens  on,  its  Maker's  fiat  to  fulfill, 
Until  the  Almighty's  nod,  both  Time  and  wave  shall  still. 


252  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

MARTIN  MATTISON, 

OF  NORTH  BENNINGTON. 

DEATH  IN  THE  WINE  CUP  AND  BOWL. 

Oh,  there  's  death  in  the    bowl,  when    the  wine    sparkles 
brightly, 

And  gay  hearts  are  merry  in  revel  and  song ; 
When  the  victims  of  sorrow  all  congregate,  nightly, 

To  mingle  with  mirth  in  the  bacchanal  throng. 

Oh,  there 's  death  in  the  bowl,  when  beloved  ones  are  weeping, 

In  sorrow  and  anguish,  a  father's  return  ; 
And  a  pale  one  is  weary  of  lone  vigils  keeping, 

While  love  in  her  bosom  ne'er  ceases  to  burn. 

Oh,  there  's  death  in  the  bowl,  while  the  tempter  is  seeking 
To  wrest  from  the  needy  his  hard-gotten  gain ; 

And  the  hands  of  the  demon  are  gory,  and  reeking 
With  the  blood  of  the  victims  his  traffic  has  slain. 

Oh,  there  's  death  in  the  bowl,  when  delirium  is  raging, 
And  trembling  and  madness  shall  seize  on  the  frame  5 

Wliile  wild  beasts  and  spectres,  in  warfare  engaging, 
And  legions  of  serpents  the  fancy  inflame. 

Oh,  there's  death  in  the  bowl — seethe  drunkards  all  falling, 
As  each  bloated  victim  must  yeild  up  his  soul  ; 

The  rum-selling  monster  recruits  is  still  calling, 

Though  death's  in  the  wine-cup,  and  death's  in  the  bowl. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  253 

DEATH  OF  COL.  MARTIN  SCOTT. 

"He  sleeps  his  last  sleep — he  has  fought  his  last  battle." 
Nor  heeds  he  the  strife  on  yon  far  distant  field  ,* 

No  sound  can  awake  him,  though  cannons  may  rattle, 
He  slumbers,  who  ne'er  to  the  foeman  would  yield. 

He  sleeps  his  last  sleep,  yet  he  died  in  his  glory, 

And  mem'ry  shall  weave  him  bright  laurels  of  fame, 

While  his  deeds  at  Monterey  will  live  long  in  story, 
And  chivalric  daring  emblazon  his  name. 

He  sleeps  his  last  sleep — a  bright  star  in  the  nation 

Has  set  in  a  halo  that  dazzles  afar ; 
And  we  drop  the  sad  tear — a  fitting  oblation, 

O'er  the  dust  of  the  hero,  and  victor  in  war. 

He  sleeps  his  last  sleep — we  no  more  shall  behold  him, 
Who  foremost  in  conflict  was  e'er  to  be  found, 

The  narrow  confines  of  his  tomb  must  enfold  him, 
Yet  he  lives  while  the  trump  of  his  valor  shall  sound. 

He  sleeps  his  last  sleep,  who  could  lead  on  in  glory, 
^  His  thousands  to  vict'ry,  again  and  again ; 
Yet  fame  shall  live  ever  in  song  and  in  story, 
To  tell  how  the  warrior,  in  battle,  was  slain. 


A  VERMONTER  IN  VIRGINIA. 

I  will  not  stay  where  tyrant  wrong 
Denies  that  rights  to  man  belong, 
Whose  deepest  guilt,  whose  damning  sin, 
Lies  in  the  color  of  his  skin. 


254  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  song  of  Liberty  is  hushed, 
God's  image  trampled  in  the  dust ; 
Appeals  to  mercy  all  are  vain, 
And  answered  by  the  clanking  chain. 

I  '11  hie  me  to  yon  verdant  hills, 
Where  freedom  sweet  each  bosom  fills, 
And  equal  rights  are  held  in  view, 
To  every  man,  of  every  hue. 

Those  rights  to  man  our  Maker  gave 
Are  wrested  from  the  groaning  slave  ; 
The  scorpion  lash  his  limbs  control, 
And  rivet  fetters  on  his  soul. 


AN  OCEAN  SCENE. 

A  bark  was  once  gallantly  speeding  her  way, 
And  the  crew  on  her  deck  seemed  happy  and  gay, 
All  but  a  poor  pilgrim,  whose  sorrows  were  deep, 
As  he  lay  in  repose  on  his  pillow,  asleep. 
This  meek  man  of  sorrows,  acquainted  with  grief, 
Who  ne'er  passed  the  needy  but  gave  them  relief, 
What  saw  he  but  visions  of  heavenly  rest, 
In  mansions  eternal,  prepared  for  the  blest. 
Nor  long  his  repose,  e'er  the  wind  whistled  shrill, 
Where,  a  moment  before,  all  was  placid  and  still  ; 
The  storm  madly  raged,  and  the  high-rolling  wave 
Made  fearful  the  hearts  of  the  manly  and  brave. 
Then  awake  they  the  sleeper,  and  unto  him  say, 
"Master!  Carest  thou  not  that  we  perish"  to-day  ? 
When  arose  he  in  beauty,  majestic  in  form  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  255 

"  Peace ;  be  still !  "  His  rebuke,  and  liush'd  was  the  storm. 

The  winds  that  so  waved  o'er  the  sea's  glassy  bed, 

At  His  high  command  to  their  caverns  had  fled  ; 

The  mountain-high  billows  no  longer  were  seen. 

And  the  sunlight  of  Heaven  shone  sweetly  serene. 

Thus  when  the  rude  tempests  of  life  o'er  us  roll, 

A  Saviour  is  ready  each  wave  to  control  ! 

If  faithful  and  prayerful,  and  hearts  ever  warm, 

With  love  for  the  Pilgrim,  who  chided  the  storm. 


BRASS  BUTTONS. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  TIME  OF  THE  REBELLION. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  are  now  all  the  go, 
While  true  sons  of  freedom  are  striking  the  foe, 
The  death  knell  of  rebels  resounds  in  the  air, 
And  slave-holding  tyrants  are  wild  in  despair. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  are  all  under  pay, 
As  they  strut  in  their  war-plumage  brilliant  and  gay, 
How  lofty  their  bearing— how  martial  and  proud; 
As  mingle  these  heroes  in  the  peace-loving  crowd. 

Brass  buttons  on  furlough ;  while  blood,  freely  shed, 
Is  running,  in  torrents,  from  wounded  and  dead  ; 
Fort  Donelson  crimsoned  with  blood  of  the  slain, 
While  victors  march  onward  more  laurels  to  gain. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  will  ne'er  win  the  day; 
Nor  lessen  the  war-tax  we  all  have  to  pay; 
They  who  would  win  laurels,  to  "Dixie  "  must  go, 
And  show  their  brass  buttons  in  front  of  the  foe. 


256  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  in  blue  broadcloth  dressed, 
Are  heroes  whose  courage  has  ne'er  stood  the  test— 
They  may  quail  in  the  conflict,  and  e'en  run  away, 
And  live  to  fight  battles  on  some  future  day. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  how  oft  do  we  meet 
In  cars,  stores  and  hotels,  and  walking  the  street; 
Like  Jehu,  they  each  can  a  livery  team  drive, 
But  harmless  in  battle  as  drones  in  a  hive. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough;  how  sickening  the  sight; 
All  lounging  in  day-time,  carousing  at  night ; 
They  blow,  swell  and  swagger,  and  talk  of  the  war, 
And  watch  the  smoke  curl  from  a  ten-cent  cigar. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough ;  oh,  how  can  they  fail- 
As  their  bravery  increases  with  each  glass  of  ale  — 
To  conquer  the  rebels,  our  great  country  save, 
And  liberty  give  to  the  manacled  slave. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough  !  how  vain  is  your  pride, 
If  those  shining  baubles  poor  craven  hearts  hide ; 
Then  lay  aside  musket,  sword,  pistol  and  vow 
Go  back  to  your  workshops,  or  follow  the  plough. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  a  pension  should  draw; 
Such  veteran  soldiers  no  nation  e'er  saw ; 
While  cannons  are  booming,  and  bursting  are  shells, 
They  're  dancing  cotillions  and  jingling  sleigh  bells. 

Brass  buttons,  on  furlough,  why  tarry  ye  here         [fear  ? 
In  the  Green  Mountain  state,  where  there  's  nothing  to 
Unfurl  your  bright  banners  of  stripes  and  of  stars, 
And  buckle  your  armor  and  start  for  the  wars. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  257 

VOICE  OF  THE  PRAIRIE  FLOWERS. 

WRITTEN  AT  NAUVQO,  ILLIXOIS,  MAY  10,  1851. 

There  's  many  a  flower  in  gardens  fair, 
Of  sweet  perfume  and  beauty  rare  ; 
With  whose  rich  tints  of  deepest  dye, 
Our  humble  selves  can  never  vie. 

They  bloom  'round  arbors,  walks  and  mounds, 
In  cherished  groves,  and  furrowed  grounds ; 
Oft  nurtured,  too,  by  ladies  fair, 
And  tended  with  exquisite  care. 

Far  from  the  haunts  of  men  we  dwell, 
Where  nature  does  all  arts  excel  ; 
Quite  free  from  ostentatious  pride, 
We  beautify  the  Prairie  wide. 

Deep  in  the  bosom  of  the  earth, 
Pure  gold,  and  brightest  gems  of  worth 
Are  found — and  choicest  pearls  lie  low, 
Beneath  where  briny  waters  flow. 

So  virtue,  truth  and  moral  worth 
Dwell  with  the  humble  of  the  earth  ; 
While  those  who  have  to  fame  aspired, 
Are  courted,  worshiped  and  admired. 

Then  on  the  Prairie,  free  and  wide, 

In  sweet  content,  will  we  reside ; 

Far,  far  away  from  mortal  view, 

We  '11  drink  the  showers  and  kiss  the  dew. 


258  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Here  on  the  Prairie,  broad  and  free, 
We  welcome,  oft,  the  honey-bee  : 
The  wild  fowl's  song  the  night  can  cheer, 
While  'round  us  sport  the  bounding  deer. 

They  tell  us  man  is  treacherous,  vile ; 
That  falsehood  lurks  beneath  his  smile  ; 
Among  the  wealthy,  proud  and  gay, 
He  only  natters  to  betray. 

He  discontented,  ever  roams  ; 
He  worships  God  in  stately  domes ; 
The  Hymn  of  gratitude  we  raise, 
Is  humble,  mute  and  fragrant  praise. 


MRS.   L.  S.  GOODWIN. 

Mrs.  Goodwin  was  born  in  St.  Johnsbury,  Vt.,  but  now  has 
charge  of  the  Youth's  Department  of  the  "  Christian  Era,"  pub 
lished  in  Boston,  Mass. 


A  LAY  OF  MEMPHREMAGOG. 

Not  as  when,  in  summer  days, 
Wove  illusive  sunset  haze 
Bound  the  mountain,  bald  and  grim ; 
Watching  at  the  rocking  rim 
Of  the  cradled  lake,  whose  isles 
Are  the  toys  at  which  it  smiles — 
And  when  day,  but  half  awake, 
Saw  the  roe  stoop  to  the  lake. 
And  its  silver  waters  sip, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  259 

With  his  image,  lip  to  lip  ; 
Listening  close,  with  tremulous  ear, 
To  ten  thousand  warblers  clear, 
Up  the  greenwood  steep  so  far; 
Which  was  dew-drop,  which  was  star 
Glimmering  near  the  gates  ajar — 
What  was  bird-voice,  what  was  psalm, 
Stealing  through  the  radiant  balm, 
Out  the  changeless,  God-lit  sphere, 
Sense  said  not — nor  eye  nor  ear. 
Dash  the  canvas — white  for  green ; 
Summer's  gone — a  winter  scene. 

Owl's  Head  wears  its  coil  of  snow, 
Memphremagog  hides  below ; 
Crisp  the  air,  with  frost  and  sleet 
Folding,  in  the  mountain  dim, 
As  his  wings  the  seraphim — 
Twain  bis  face  and  twain  his  feet. 
Mirroring  waves  no  more  declare 
Passing  thought  of  sky  and  air. 
Moon,  or  stars,  or  bird,  or  cloud, 
Nor  to  winds  confess  aloud, 
Conscience  troubled,  heart  and  head  ; 
Ice-encrusted,  deep  snow-spread, 
Nothing  stirs  a  conscience  dead. 

On  the  fir-tree's  outstretched  palms 
Lie  the  bounteous  angel  alms  : 
League  on  league  of  untrod  white, 
Save  the  squirrel's  footmarks  slight; 
And  the  red  fox's  deeper  trail, 
Where  he  roamed  the  moonlit  vale ; 


260  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Ay,  and  slant  the  frozen  wave, 
Past  the  smuggler's  island  cave; 
One  great  furrow,  roughly  ploughed, 
By  a  preying  wolf-pack  loud, 
Fierce,  and  lean,  and  devil-browed. 
By  their  lair,  'neath  Eagles'  Cliff, 
Oft  the  covetous  white  man's  skiff 
Chased  and  lost  the  birch  canoe, 
When  some  rock-gate  let  it  through, 
Bearing  to  the  mountain's  bed. 
Of  his  tribe  the  guardian  red, 
Over  a  mysterious  mine, 
Where  the  silver  nuggets  shine — 
Hidden  still ;  there  are  who  say, 
Guards  his  ghost  the  place,  to  day. 

Deep  within  the  solitude 
Of  the  winter-girded  wood, 
Where  no  foot  of  man  conies  near, 
Is  a  herd  of  gentle  deer. 
Six  brave  stags,  with  each  a  mate, 
In  a  city  of  whose  gate 
Spring,  incoming,  holds  the  key — 
City  walled  with  porphyry. 
Busy  workers  wrought  betimes, 
Hearing  nought  of  Christmas  chimes, 
Heeding  nought  of  glad  New  Year, 
Daily,  nightly,  building  here. 
Noiseless  workers — trowel's  fray, 
Chisel's  twang,  nor  mattock's  sway 
Tempted  echo  from  her  haunt ; 
Scaffold  high,  nor  ladder  gaunt, 
Stayed  them  up,  or  aided  down, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  261 

While  was  reared  that  forest  town. 

Silence,  save  when  tone  severe, 

As  of  tyrant  overseer — 

Was  it  but  the  hoarse  wind's  call  ? 

"  Clouds,  and  Cold,  and  Snowflakes,  all, 

Idlers,  haste — build,  build  your  wall !" 

When  the  Northern  Lights'  review 

O 

Eends  the  veil  of  midnight  through, 
And  the  phantom  warriors  ride 
To  the  contest,  bloody-dyed; 
And  the  superstitious  ear 
Very  clash  of  arms  can  hear — 
All  that  wall  of  snow  on  snow 
Flashes,  in  prismatic  glow, 
Down  each  marble-paved  street — 
Smoothly  by  the  slim  hoofs  beat. 

WThen  unheralded  by  bird, 

Comes  the  pallid  morn  deferred, 

From  their  covert,  one  by  one, 

Rise  the  herd  to  feel  the  sun ; 

Snap  the  slender  icicles 

On  the  snowy  vine-thatch  formed, 

By  their  couched  breaths  faintly  warmed, 

Ringing  out  like  silver  bells. 

Stretch  their  graceful  necks  to  browse 

On  the  mottled  beech-tree  boughs; 

Leave  their  shredded  hair  entwined 

With  the  maple's  fretted  rind ; 

Start,  and  list  the  frost-king's  tread 

On  the  branches  overhead; 

Playful  weave  their  antlers  proud, 


262  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

To  the  wall  like  foremen  crowd, 
Part,  and  leap,  and  bleat  aloud. 

Whisper  not  the  tale  I've  told 
To  the  snow-shod  hunter  bold ; 
Safe  let  dwell  the  herded  deer — 
Hist !  his  eager  hounds  may  hear. 


FACTORY  SONG. 

The  spindles  whirl,  the  bobbins  fill, 

A  little  maid  tends  the  thread, 
Singing  a  song  of  somebody, 

And  somebody's  name  is  Fred. 
She  trills  aloud,  for  none  can  hear, 

So  noisily  goes  the  mill ; 
Telling  her  secret  to  many  an  ear, 

And  keeping  her  secret  still. 

To  her  the  din  has  the  goodly  sound 

Of  a  carpenter's  hammer  and  saw, 
And  voices  of  raisers  of  cottage  walls — 

"  Heavo — Heavo — Hurrah  !  " 
Building  a  home  for  somebody, 

And  somebody's  name  is  Fred, 
And  somebody's  love  is  a  factory  girl, 

Mending  the  broken  thread. 

O,  never  she  doubts  but  somebody  thinks 
Of  her  as  she  thinks  of  him ; 

Counting  what  day  their  cup  of  bliss 
Will  be  full  to  its  rosy  brim. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  263 

So  to  and  fro  in  the  aisle  she  goes 

Light  hearted  and  light  of  tread  ; 
Others  may  work  for  *'  the  Company," 

But  she  is  working  for  Fred. 

She  doffs  the  bobbins,  they  fill  again, 

And  so  on  all  the  day ; 
Then  the  wheels  they  cease,  the  bell  rings  out, 

The  little  maid  trips  away. 
But  soon  up  stairs,  in  her  chamber  small, 

And  soon  in  her  dreamy  bed ; 
Her  spirit  is  singing  of  somebody, 

And  somebody's  name  is  Fred. 

So  may  the  years  go  smoothly  round 

With  his  little  wife  and  Fred, 
Till  time  shall  doff  the  bobbins  full, 

And  the  bell  calls  to  the  dead. 
O,  then  may  they  up  the  crystal  stairs — 

Earth's  weariness  left  behind — 
Haste,  hand  in  hand,  to  the  mansions  fair, 

And  a  happy  welcome  find. 


THE  WAY  OF  THE  NEW  WORLD. 

"The  boy  is  father  of  the  man." 

The  dwarfed  red  school-house  blossomed  out, 

That  ancient  four  o'clock, 
And  boys  and  girls,  in  homespun  stout, 

Scions  of  Pilgrim  stock, 
Ran  downward  with  exultant  shout, 

Like  waves  from  Plymouth  Rock. 


264  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Midway  between  our  school  and  home, 

The  valley  road  beside, 
Where  the  stark  mountain  spat  his  foam 

In  a  broad,  dashing  tide, 
A  mill  was  rising  to  its  dome, 

A  mill  both  strong  and  wide. 

Three  goodly  sides  of  giant  oak, 

Our  wondering  visions  trace ; 
The  fourth,  by  many  a  sturdy  stroke, 

Was  ready  for  its  place ; 
Our  fathers  bore  the  labor  yoke 

With  swart  and  sweaty  face. 

The  weary  shoulders  put  beneath, 

Their  burden  took  its  aim ; 
Slow  rising,  while  the  toilers'  breath 

With  moaning  went  and  came; 
They  halt — they  strain — vainly,  't  is  Death 

Sits  heavy  on  that  frame  ! 

Through  sudden  dusk  which  seemed  to  brood, 

We  thought  the  future  stone 
Of  the  great  mill,  in  angry  mood, 

Was  grinding  flesh  and  bone : 
And  we,  as  helpless  orphans,  stood 

A  palsied  row — save  one. 

He,  flaxen  headed,  barefoot,  brown, 

In  printed  pinafore, 
His  shining  dinner-pail  dashed  down 

Upon  the  rocky  floor, 
And  cried,  "  Heavo  !"  in  voice  to  drown 

The  very  mill-stream's  roar. 


GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  265 

We  heard  a  ring — like  spear  and  shield, 

We  saw  but  two  small  hands, 
Dyed  purple  at  the  berry-field, 

Clapping  their  firm  commands ; 
So  while  our  swiftest  blood  congealed, 

To  cry  "  Heavo  !'*  he  stands. 

What  ready  Titan  from  his  cave 

Sprang  forth,  none  ever  knew; 
But  up  !  light,  light  as  vapor-wave, 

The  shuddering  timbers  flew: 
One  careless  whoop  young  hero  gave, 

And  fled  before  his  crew. 

Swift  years,  till  once  he  famous  wakes, 

When  politics  run  high  ; 
New  urchins  fare  on  'lection  cakes 

Alumni  he  and  I : 
At  night  they  count  the  ballot  flakes — 

*'  Hurra  !"  his  party  cry. 

"  Hurra !"  it  rang  a  final  truce 

To  times  behind  that  lay ; 
His  washen  hands  for  sterner  use, 

Must  fold  his  youth  away  : 
Nor  aught  more  dread  than  berry-juice 

Has  stained  them  since  that  day. 

And  when  from  Washington  we  hear, 

'Mid  gales  that  ever  blow, 
Confusion  to  the  listening  ear, 

His  ringing,  sure  "  Heavo  !  " 
The  Nation's  frame,  which  tottered  sheer, 
Is  going  up,  we  know. 


266  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

MYRON  ROBERT  HURLBUT, 

FORMERLY  OF  QRAXD  ISLE,  VERMONT — HOW  OF  NEW  YORK  CITY. 

"  THE  LAND  IS  SACRED  WHICH  WE  LOVE.' 

Come  all,  this  day,  and  follow  me 
To  far  off  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
To  those  sad  days  we  blush  to  name, 
When  man  his  rights  dare  not  proclaim ; 
Follow  me  through  the  march  of  years, 
Whose  path  is  moist  with  blood  and  tears, 
And  I,  my  friends,  will  to  you  prove, 
"The  land  is  sacred  which  we  love." 

Brave  was  that  band  who  only  knew 
That  they  must  bid  their  land  adieu ; 
To  seek,  in  some  fair  realm  unknown, 
Where  none  before  had  ever  gone, 
A  land  beyond  Atlantic's  tide, 
Where  they,  in  Freedom,  might  abide 
Till  ages,  dark,  should  roll  away, 
And  make  us  what  we  are  to-day, 

At  length  the  last  sad  hour  drew  nigh, 
When  they  must  from  their  country  fly  ! 
They  stood  beneath  the  snowy  sail, 
That  spread  its  bosom  to  the  gale ; 
Then  soon  the  brave  and  gallant  few 
Bade  all  their  native  land  adieu, 
And  the  dark  gloom  of  Ocean's  night 
At  last  received  them  from  her  sight. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  267 

Long  days  and  weeks  of  sorrow  past, 
While  they  were  on  the  waters  vast ; 
Their  little  bark,  in  all  its  might, 
Was  struggling  in  its"  unknown  flight ; 
Her  masts  before  the  storm  were  bent ; 
Her  sails  were  torn,  her  shrouds  were  rent, 
And  she,  as  if  by  wrath  of  Heaven, 
Was  by  the  raging  tempest  driven. 

At  last,  at  last,  a  land  was  spied, 
Which  to  their  eyes  was  long  denied ; 
She,  far  away  to  the  bright  West, 
Then  loomed  above  the  wave's  blue  crest ; 
Her  lofty  peaks,  with  snowy  shrouds, 
Were  lifted  high  above  the  clouds, 
And,  at  their  feet,  there  calmly  lay 
The  waters  of  fair  Plymouth's  Bay. 

Bright  was  the  morn — their  sails  were  furled 
In  the  dark  shades  of  this  new  world  ; 
And  they  were  moored  to  that  grim  rock, 
Which  had  stood  age's  trembling  shock. 
Dark  was  the  gloom  that  round  them  spread, 
As  they,  upon  that  lone  rock,  shed 
A  tear  of  hope,  mixed  with  despair, 
To  leave  the  ship  that  bore  them  there. 

They  knelt  upon  the  dreary  sands, 
And  raised  to  God  their  feeble  hands ; 
And  from  each  lip  there  rose  a  prayer, 
That  He  might  guard,  that  He  might  spare 
Those,  who  might,  from  that  land  oppressed, 
Have  cherished  hope  within  their  breast, 


268  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

To  find  beyond  the  western  wave 
A  home,  a  country,  and  a  grave. 

Advanced  they  in  the  forests  wild, 
Where  but  the  rose  and  daisy  smiled, 
And  there  beneath  the  waving  pine, 
Thus  far  remote  from  human  kind. 
The  Pilgrim  made  his  humble  bed, 
And  on  the  moss  reclined  his  head, 
And,  'mid  the  hours  of  darkest  gloom, 
They  dreamed  of  brighter  days  to  come. 

As  seasons,  bright  in  beauty,  neared, 
Before  them  forests  disappeared  ; 
And,  ere  the  summer  months  had  gone, 
They  gathered  fruits  where  once  were  none 
And  in  each  dark  and  dismal  hut, 
Which  from  the  grove  was  rudely  cut, 
They  dwelt  in  fear — 't  was  death  to  meet 
The  savage,  in  his  wild  retreat. 

But  when  a  few  dark  years  had  fled, 
This  youthful  nation  swiftly  spread 
Her  wealth  and  glory  far  and  wide 
Along  Atlantic's  foaming  tide, 
The  Red  man,  with  his  nimble  bow, 
Then  fled  where  brighter  waters  flow ; 
And  they — once  owners  of  the  soil — 
Gave  up  their  lands  to  sons  of  toil. 

Scarce  Liberty  had  spread  its  hand 
O'er  this  our  broad  extended  land, 
And  she,  with  all  her  lovely  charms, 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  269 

Inspired  her  sons  to  love  of  arms, 
Than  came  there  from  beyond  the  wave 
A  despot  king  to  make  her  slave, 
And  take  from  her  that  sacred  trust, 
To  trample  it  e'en  in  the  dust. 

To  arms  !  to  arms  !  she  bleeding  cried  ! 
'T  was  answered,  too,  on  every  side ; 
And  round  her  standard,  high  upreared. 
The  bravest  of  her  sons  appeared  5 
And  by  seven  years  of  bloody  strife, 
They  gave  to  her  a  sweeter  life  ; 
And  in  that  bright,  untarnished  field, 
Her  glory  with  bright  stars  they  sealed. 

At  Valley-Forge  her  snows  were  dyed 
By  blood  of  warriors,  brave  and  tried; 
The  howling  winds,  and  winter's  blast, 
No  gloom  upon  their  valor  cast ; 
For  they  were  firm  in  that  decree, 
That  they  might  yet  a  nation  be — 
To  gather  that  for  which  they  'd  sown, 
Where  life  and  blood  had  freely  flown. 

Again,  on  winds  from  Britain's  plains, 
Was  heard  the  din  of  clanking1  chains; 

O  ' 

And  had  the  love  so  early  cherished, 
Within  their  bosoms  quickly  perished  ? 
Not  so,  for  they  had  scarce  returned 
From  crimson  fields  where  they  had  learned 
'T  was  sweet  their  lives  to  bravely  give, 
That  their  native  land  might  rise — might  live. 


270  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

No  more  is  heard  the  battle  shout — 
The  fires  within  their  camps  are  out — 
The  broken  swords  and  battered  shields 
Are  strewn  upon  the  battle-fields; 
The  lily  of  the  forest-dale 
Bows  low  its  head  to  every  gale, 
And  drops  a  tear  to  wet  the  sod, 
That  once  was  bathed  in  noble  blood. 

Sweet  peace,  so  much  by  man  endeared,' 
At  last  o'er  all  the  land  appeared  ; 
And,  round  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Her  brightest  light  and  luster  shed  : 
The  songs  of  war  no  more  were  sung — 
The  sword  was  in  its  scabbard  hung, 
For  its  great  work,  at  last,  was  done, 
To  make  us  strong — many  in  one. 

But  little  while— and  then,  at  length, 

When  she  had  grown  in  wealth  and  strength, 

A  tyrant  raised  his  cruel  hand, 

And  drenched  with  blood  this  noble  land; 

That  he  might,  by  vile  slavery, 

Destroy  the  rights  of  liberty, 

And  rule  us  with  an  iron  rod — 

A  despot  in  the  sight  of  God. 

Dark  was  the  hour  when  she  awoke ; 
The  nation  trembled  when  she  spoke  ; 
Her  voice  was  heard,  and  quickly,  then, 
'T  was  answered  by  a  million  men. 
They  came  from  valleys,  plains  and  hills, 
That  fed  the  rivers  with  their  rills ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  271 

They  left  their  homes,  on  land  and  wave, 
Their  rights  to  guard — their  flag  to  save. 

0,  long  and  bloody  was  the  fight, 
That  gave  us  this  our  dearest  right ; 
I  need  not  tell  you  all  that  past, 
That  gave  us  this  sweet  boon  at  last : 
I  need  not  take  you  to  each  field 
That  you  may  see  all  things  revealed ; 
But" may  you,  in  the  war-path,  trace 
The  bloody  scenes  that  once  took  place. 

Could  you  have  gone  to  some  dark  cell — 
There  heard  the  dying  prisoners  tell 
How  they  have  fought — how  they  have  bled 
On  some  green  field,  by  blood  made  red — 
You  would  have  paused,  to  ask  not  why 
They  loved  to  live,  but  better — die  ; 
For  all  these  things  do  truly  prove 
The  land  is  sacred  which  we  love. 

They  rest  in  death,  for  all  is  o'er, 
They  hear  the  battle-cry  no  more ; 
The  martial  fife  and  rolling  drum 
Bid  them  no  more  to  battle  come  : 
Their  sleep  of  death  how  glorious, 
When  fallen  all  victorious  ! 
No  terror  has  it  to  one's  breast, 
For  all  is  peace — for  all  is  rest. 

Disturb  them  not,  but  let  them  rest ; 

Their  names  are  bright — their  deeds  are  blest. 

How  can  you  them  your  tears  deny, 


272  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

To  turn  away  and  pass  them  by  ? 
For  there  are  none — no,  none  as  they, 
Who  in  our  bosoms  hold  a  sway. 
Their  spirits  rise,  and  bid  you  come 
To  pay  your  homage  at  each  tomb. 

They  fell  in  the  morn  of  their  glory  ; 
The  last  cry  heard  was  victory — 
They  heard  it  in  the  hour  of  death, 
They  breathed  it  with  their  dying  breath  : 
'T  is  sad  to  tell,  though  brave  and  grand, 
That  such  pure  blood  should  drench  our  land  — 
The  land  they  loved — so  dearly  cherished  — 
In  her  great  name  they  fought  and  perished. 

Behold  these  dark,  green  hills  of  ours, 

Whose  forms  are  clothed  with  blooming  flowers  - 

Their  beauty  blossoms  in  the  dust 

Of  those  we  've  given  to  their  trust; 

And  when  you  Ve  by  each  lone  grave  knelt, 

Have  you  not  in  your  bosoms  felt 

That  there  was  something  strong  to  prove, 

They  lived  and  died  that  we  might  love  ? 

Behold  some  one  of  her  fair  lakes, 

Whose  bosom  heaves,  and  scarcely  breaks, 

Alone,  within  her  calm  embrace, 

One  can  a  thousand  islands  trace, 

Whose  forms  are  crowned  with  living  groves, 

In  which  the  fairest  warbler  roves — 

Yes,  there,  upon  each  shining  shore, 

I  'd  love  to  live  my  life  once  more. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  273 

What  glory  can  a  nation  share, 
Far  more  renowned  than  we  now  bear  ? 
Could  Rome,  with  all  her  mighty  host, 
Of  such  a  land  of  promise  boast  ? 
Could  she,  with  all  her  wealth  of  state, 
Then  guard  against  her  destined  fate  ? 
Not  so — for  she,  whose  thirst  was  strife, 
Knew  not  the  sweets  of  nation's  life. 

Sweet  peace !  we  welcome  thee  once  more, 

Thy  voice  is  heard  from  shore  to  shore ;  / 

The  hearts  that  once  were  made  so  sad 

Are  at  thy  coming  now  made  glad. 

0,  God !  reveal  Thy  sacred  truth, 

Inspire  the  heart  of  each  brave  youth ; 

And  wilt  Thou,  in  Thy  mercy,  prove 

The  land  is  sacred  which  we  love. 


YOUTH. 

'T  is  sad  that  life's  most  pleasant  dream 

Has  now  so  quickly  past ; 
And  how  can  I  now  make  it  seem 

That  it  must  be  the  last. 

'T  is  sad  that  all  these  joys  have  flown 
From  youth's  once  flow'ring  urn  ; 

And  those  bright  scenes,  so  happy  known, 
Can  never  more  return. 

'T  is  sad,  but  true,  we  all  must  part 
From  those  in  youth  we  've  met; 


274  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But,  deep  within  each  troubled  heart, 
Sweet  love  is  lingering  yet. 

'T  is  sad — but  yet  there  still  remains 
What  none  can  ever  take — 

The  thrilling  touch,  the  gentle  strain 
Of  cords  that  none  can  break. 


"THE  FLAG  OF  SIXTY-SEVEN." 

To-day  we  come  to  give  to  thee, 

What  none  before  have  given, 
And  may  our  motto  ever  be 

"  The  Flag  of  Sixty-Seven." 
Unfurl  it  to  the  gentle  breeze 

That  sweeps  the  mountain  heights; 
For  there  are  none  so  bright  as  these, 

In  which  each  heart  delights. 

To-day,  beneath  the  sky  so  blue, 

We're  martialed  here,  to  greet 
Kind  friends,  whom  we  must  bid  adieu — 

Perhaps  no  more  to  meet. 
Must  those  firm  ties  that  bind  each  heart, 

Which  seem  so  hard  to  sever, 
At  last  be  broken,  when  we  part, 

And  joined  no  more,  forever  ? 

May  those  four  stars,  which  represent 

The  honor  of  our  nation, 
Never  from  her  folds  be  rent, 

To  mar  her  constellation ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  275 

May  they,  in  beauty,  ever  shine, 

Where  blood  and  tears  have  blended ; 

And  may  they,  by  each  hand  of  thine, 
Be  guarded  and  defended. 

r 

Through  changing  scenes  our  march  has  been 

Beneath  her  starry  fold  ; 
Resolved  that  we,  one  day,  might  win 

The  honors  we  now  hold. 
Now,  as  we  close  our  sojourn  here, 

We  '11  give  the  trust  to  you, 
And  on  her  altar  drop  a  tear, 

And  bid  you  all  adieu. 


THE  SILVER  LAKE. 

Where  willows  o'er  bright  waters  bend 

I  '11  muse  a  while  away ; 
And  count  the  stars,  which  seem  to  blend 

Their  beauty  in  its  spray. 

I  love  to  muse — ah,  yes,  a  while, 

Upon  its  golden  sands, 
To  watch  the  waves  which  seem  to  smile, 

And  clap  their  snowy  hands. 

I  love  its  cool  and  calm  retreat, 
When  toilsome  hours  are  o'er — 

To  hear  the  waves  enchanting  beat 
Their  music  on  the  shore. 

Long  years  have  swept,  unconscious,  past, 
Since  first  I  gazed  on  thee ; 


276  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  now,  how  strange  that  thou,  at  last, 
Should  smile  to  welcome  me. 

Sleep  on,  fair  lake — forever  rest, 

Thy  form  is  dear  to  me ; 
As  long  as  love  reigns  in  my  breast, 

My  songs  shall  be  of  thee. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  GEN.  WORDSWORTH. 

Where  is  the  mighty  of  the  slain, 

So  gallant,  once,  in  war  ? 
Shall  he  not  lead  us  on  again 

To  luminate  our  Star  ? 
Fallen  !  fallen  !  is  our  hero — 

The  one  we  loved  so  well  ; 
He  met  his*  death  amid  the  foe — 

Within  their  ranks  he  fell. 

I  heard  him  shout,  with  sword  in  hand, 

"Brave  boys,  come,  follow  me!" 
He  led  the  host  of  his  great  land 

Right  on  to  victory. 
Then  as  before  his  giant  form, 

Robed  in  a  fiery  shroud, 
I  heard  his  voice  above  the  storm 

His  sword  flashed  in  its  cloud. 

At  last  a  hundred  cannon  spoke — 

The  battlements  were  riven ; 
His  spirit  rose  above  the  smoke 

To  its  high  rank  in  Heaven — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  277 

To  join  the  legions  of  the  dead 

Beyond  life's  stormy  sea, 
By  one  Great  Captain  to  be  led, 

Through  all  eternity. 

He  loved  his  country  and  her  cause, 

Far  more  than  earthly  pride  ; 
He  fought,  he  bled  for  freedom's  laws — 

For  liberty  he  died. 
He  knew  all  men  must  equal  be, 

And  o'er  them  one  flag  wave, 
He  gave  his  life  that  we  be  free, 

And  never  know  a  slave. 

Deep  in  the  pool  of  all  our  tears, 

Now  lies  the  gem  of  worth  ; 
There  to  reveal,  through  future  years, 

The  name  of  our  Wordsworth. 
And  when  you  o'er  his  great  state  tread, 

Remember  it 's  his  grave  ; 
Then  weep  for  him — for  you  he  bled — 

The  bravest  of  the  brave  ! 


MY  ALMA  MATER. 

On  Norwich  Plain  we  meet  again, 

Beneath  our  banner  bright, 
Where  shine  the  stars,  made  bright  by  Mars, 

That  ever  give  us  light. 

0  yes,  't  is  sweet,  once  more,  to  greet 
Our  brothers,  drest  in  blue ; 


278  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  clash  of  Arms  has  yet  its  charms 
In  halls  of  old  tf .  U. 

Come,  let  us  raise  our  songs  of  praise 

To  him  who  gave  her  birth, 
And  drop  a  tear  o'er  Ransom's  bier — 

The  brightest  spot  of  earth. 

Come,  all  her  brave,  from  land  and  wave, 

In  honored  peace  retreat : 
The  storm  has  past,  now  may  you  cast 

Your  laurels  at  her  feet. 

Remember,  those  who  now  repose, 
Were  once  our  nation's  trust ; 

Their  names  are  sown  where  blood  has  flown, 
To  blossom  in  the  dust. 

So  let  us  live  that  we  may  give 
Our  names — a  watchword  t'  be  ; 

When  we  have  past  through  life,  at  last 
Our  deeds  may  honor  thee. 


REV.  DAVID  J.  PIERCE, 

OF  CHESTER.      A  GRADUATE  OF  NEWTON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY,  MASS. 

FOLLOW  ME. 

I  saw  a  youth  in  manhood's  prime, 

The  victim  of  a  heinous  crime  ; 

His  brow  was  sad,  his  hopes  were  gone, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  279 

He  feared  he  was  for  life  undone. 

In  tones  of  sweetest  melody, 

Christ  says  to  him  :  "  Youth,  follow  me. 

He  started  as  he  heard  his  name, 

Then  staggered  back,  aghast  with  shame, 

He  feared  to  meet  that  heavenly  face 

Till  he  could  cover  his  disgrace. 

Bat  Christ  replied:  "Thy  crimes  I  see 

And  can  forgive  ;  so,  follow  me." 

Astonished  and  amazed  he  stood, 

While  there  that  heavenly  form  he  viewed  ; 

Bewildered,  such  a  friend  to  find, 

Who  'd  treat  a  wretch  like  him  so  kind, 

But  Jesus  said  :  "  I  died  for  thee  : 

Eepent,  believe  and  follow  me." 

Prostrate  before  his  friend  he  fell, 

And  all  his  grief  of  soul  did  tell ; 

He  begged  that  he  might  be  forgiven, 

And  with  his  Saviour  go  to  Heaven. 

"  If  thou  wilt  my  disciple  be," 

Said  Christ,  "  Arise,  and  follow  me." 

They  journeyed  on — the  youth,  indeed, 

Was  tempted  in  by-paths  to  tread, 

But  when  the  Lord  his  error  showed, 

He  quickly  chose  the  heavenly  road. 

When  'er  temptation  he  did  flee, 

Christ  smiled  and  cheered  him  :  "  Follow  me." 

But  now  a  lovely  plain  they  pass, 

Sweet  flowers  bloomed  thick  among  the  grass, 


280  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

'T  was  pleasant  to  the  human  eye, 

But  grief  was  ever  lurking  nigh. 

The  youth  soon  paused,  these  charms  to  see ; 

Christ  said,  rebuking:  "  Follow  me." 

A  syren  voice  now  greets  his  ear; 
"  Stop  just  a  moment,  never  fear — 
Then,  when  your  wisli  is  gratified, 
Haste  on  and  reach  your  Master's  side. 
He  followed  :  "  Yes,  I  '11  list  to  thee, 
For  sure  my  Lord  will  wait  for  me." 

But  as  he  lingered,  pleasure's  spell 
Enticed  him,  till,  ensnared,  he  fell. 
Now  darkness  overspread  the  plain, 
The  rough  winds  howled,  while  he,  in  pain, 
Cried  out :  "  My  God,  come  back  to  me, 
And  I  will  ever  follow  Thee." 

But  soon  a  horrid,  giant  form 
Came  cursing  mid  the  dismal  storm, 
He  seized  the  youth  with  fiendish  glare 
And  cried,  "You  're  a  victim  of  Despair;" 
Then  hurried  him  across  the  lea, 
Crying,  u  Have  mercy,  God,  on  me." 

A  prisoner  now  in  iron  bands, 

Once  more  to  God  he  lifts  his  hands  ; 

A  still  small  voice  breaks  on  his  ear, 

He  lists  with  anxious  heart  to  hear  : 

It  says  :  "  If  thou  'It  from  sin  be  free 

Take  up  thy  cross  and  follow  me." 

Far  off  he  sees  a  flickering  light, 

Which  cheers  the  gloom  of  that  dark  night; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  281 

With  joy  he  hastes  to  reach  the  place 
But  Jesus  meets  him  full  of  grace : 
"  Thy  weakness  now,  0,  sinner  see, 
Now  trust  in  God  and  follow  Me. 

In  strengthened  faith  he  wends  his  way, 
Nor  e'er  for  pleasure  thinks  to  stay ; 
His  Saviour  leads  him  to  the  goal 
And  gives  salvation  to  his  soul. 
So  each  may  gain  the  victory 
For  Jesus  bids  you  "Follow  me." 


A  MOTHER'S  DYING  WORDS. 

Weeping  children,  let  not  sorrow 
Fill  your  hearts,  because  I  die ; 

For  it  is  a  voice  of  welcome, 
Calling  me  to  joys  on  high. 

There  are  mansions  for  me  waiting, 
Where  no  pain  nor  death  can  come ; 

When  my  Master  calls,  I  'm  ready, 

Glad  to  hear  the  word — "  Come  home." 

Many  trials  I  have  suffered — 

Death  has  called  dear  friends  before ; 

But  they  're  waiting  to  receive  me, 
Where  there  's  joy  forevermore. 

Pain  sometimes  makes  life  a  burden — 

Bitter  seemed  the  cup  to  be ; 
But  my  God  hath  furnished  patience — 

Jesus  stays  and  comforts  me. 


282  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS 

Why  am  I  left  thus  to  suffer — 

Racked  with  pain,  from  dark  till  dawn? 

Ah,  my  God  afflicts  in  mercy ; 
I  shall  know  when  I  am  gone. 

Loving  children,  strive  to  meet  me, 
Pray  your  sins  may  be  forgiven, 

Yes,  I  trust,  I  know  He  '11  save  you, 
And  we  '11  meet  again  in  Heaven. 

Children,  sister,  aged  father, 
I  must  bid  you  all  good  bye ; 

I  am  happy,  happy,  happy, 
For  my  JESUS  seems  so  nigh. 


LINES. 

Afar  in  Southern  skies,  they  say,  there  is  a  vacant  place, 
Where  neither  eye  nor  telescope  a  star  may  ever  trace ; 
An  unknown  void  it  seems  to  be — fit  place  to  set  a  throne, 
Where  we  might  place  a  President  whom  neither  North  nor 

South  will  own, 
Some  time  ago,  as  all  well  know,  this  thing  we  thought  to 

try— 
A  plot  was  laid,  arrangements  made  to  reach  this  vacant 

sky; 

For  Johnson  and  the  Congressmen  could  never  here  agree, 
And  there  would  be  a  splendid  place  to  try  "my  policy." 
A  ladder  made  with  eleven  rounds  by  which  they  might 

ascend, 
They'gan  to  say,  the  12th  of  May,  he  'd  reach  his  journey's 

end. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  283 

The  constitution  at  the  base  they  placed  the  ladder  on, 
And  went  to  work  to  test  its  strength  to  bear  their  victims  on. 
One  step  they  took ;  the  whole  frame  shook,  they  broke  the 

eleventh  round, 

For,  strange  to  say,  the  manager  had  placed  the  top  end  down. 
Alas!  the  loss  for  freedom's  cause — 

The  braggart  must  remain, 
Till  he,  or  else  his  term,  expire, 

Or,  he  gets  drunk  again. 
Some  say  the  justice  broke  the  scale, 

Lest  he  should  lose  his  chair, 
And  the  democrats  would  lose  a  Chase 

That  now  they  could  n't  spare. 
But  some,  the  Senate  had  their  pants 

Filled  up  with  bribes  and  rocks ; 
For  some  their  office  feared  to  lose, 

And  some  their  share  in  stocks. 
But  never  can  a  yankee  guess 

What  moves  the  nation's  heart, 
Until  in  statesmanship,  he  's  served 

The  politician's  part. 
Oh  !  for  those  men  of  fabled  days, 

When  money  had  no  power ; 
When  office  was  a  sacred  thing, 

From  which  the  ruthless  cower; 
When  for  the  country's  sake,  alone. 

The  patriot's  blood  was  shed ; 
And  honest  men  dared  not  profane 

That  for  which  others  bled. 
But  human  reason  fails  to  find 
That  golden  age,  so  bright  ; 
And  niggard  ways,  and  party  plays, 
O'ercome  the  law  of  right. 


284  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


MISS  EMMA  FARBAND, 

OF  F AIRFIELD. 

LIFE. 

Oh,  what  is  life  ? 
I  ask  the  sun,  that  rises  high, 
I  ask  the  moon,  the  stars,  the  sky, 
I  ask  all  nature  for  reply. 
The  lisping  wild-wood  tells  no  tale  ; 
The  roaring  wind  naught  doth  unveil ; 
The  running  river,  as  it  steals 
Back  to  the  ocean,  naught  reveals. 

Oh,  what  is  life  ? 
I  ask  if  science  hath  not  wrought 
An  answer  to  this  eager  thought, 
But  it  unto-  me  bringeth  naught, 
Though  the  effect  it  well  may  state, 
It  ne'er  reveals  cause  ultimate; 
The  laws  of  life  it  doth  evolve, 
But  life  itself  it  cannot  solve. 

Oh,  what  is  life  ? 

To  this  wild  cry,  response  to  hring, 
I  seek  the  wise  man's  reasoning  ; 
But  this  hath  only  power  to  sting, 
For  from  each  somber  page  doth  gleam 
These  ghastly  words — "  All  is  a  dream  ; 
The  eye  sees  what  't  is  made  to  see  ; 
There  is  no  objectivity." 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  285 

Oh,  then,  is  life 

A  dream — a  phantasy,  a  trance  ? 
Beneath  my  dizzy,  spectral  glance, 
All  nature  reels  in  mystic  dance ; 
And  all  above,  beneath,  seems  made 
Not  from  real  substance,  but  a  shade. 
My  sick  heart  cries,  "  All  is  a  lie ! 
O,  loving  Father,  let  me  die  !" 

Oh,  what  is  life  ? 
\Vith  fervid  earnestness  I  kneel 
And  ask  if  God  may  not  reveal 
What  men  and  science  do  conceal : 
My  mind,  no  longer  dull  and  bleared, 
My  heart,  no  longer  sorrow-seared, 
Graspeth  from  nature  the  impress 
Of  God's  unbounded  truthfulness. 

Hence,  what  is  life? 
Is  now  no  longer  query  wild ; 
For  God  His  weak  and  weary  child, 
By  no  illusion  hath  beguiled  ; 
For,  on  the  zephyr  floating  by, 
He  sends  to  me  this  glad  reply  : 
"  Know,  all  things  are  that  seem  to  be  ; 
Know,  life  is  a  reality." 


286 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


FATE,  LAW,  AND  GOD. 


THE  REIGN  OF  FATE. 


When  young  the  sphere, 

A  goddess  came, 
And,  far  and  near, 

She  did  proclaim 
Herself  a  queen. 

The  world  she  rode 
As  charger  wild  ; 

And  this  brave  horse 
She  soon  beguiled 

To  gentle  mien. 
She  had  her  way  ; 

She  dealt  her  meeds, 
And  in  her  day, 

All  lofty  deeds 
She  did  reward, 

Or  treat  with  scorn, 
As  pleased  her  taste,  high 
born, 

Strong,  stubborn,  cold, 
Ruthless  and  bold ; 

Free,  thoughtless,  wild 

As  any  child, 


O'er  power  she  rode 
With  heedless  strode, 

And  trampled  down 

City  and  town, 
And  built  again. 
Our  round,  green  earth, 
With  cruel  mirth, 

She  did  convulse 

With  fev'rish  pulse 
Of  earthquake  shock ; 
Or  rent  the  rock 
With  lightning's  hand : 

Or  sent  amain 

A  shower  of  rain 
O'er  sea  and  land — 

And  this  dread  power, 

At  ev'ry  hour, 
Early  or  late, 

Still  ruled -our  sphere 

Both  far  and  near ; 
Men  called  her  Fate. 


THE    REIGN    OF    LAW. 

The  earth  grew  wise  ; 

Fate's  lawless  reign 
Her  older  eyes 

Beheld  with  pain  ; 
And  this  proud  queen 


She  did  unhorse, 
Without  a  tear — 

Without  remorse  : 
And  in  her  place 

There  came  a  seer  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


287 


With  measured  pace 

He  trod  the  sphere  : 
Ne'er  relenting , 
Ne'er  repenting, 

Ne'er  forgiving, 

Ne'er  reprieving, 
Ne'er  capricious, 
Ne'er  malicious, 

Never  hating, 

Calculating : 
No  lust,  no  love 
His  pulses  move. 
O'er  sea  and  land, 

O'er  all  the  sky ; 
With  even  hand 

And  even  eye, 
He  puts  these  words, 
"  To  disobey 
Will  bring,  alvvay, 

A  curse — a  bane 
You  '11  ne'er  outlive  ; 
I  ne'er  forgive 

Rebellion's  stain." 


Not  from  caprice, 

But  from  the  need, 
He  ruins  Greece, 

He  kills  the  Mede  : 
For  he  must  save 
From  timeless  grave 

His  law  of  sense  ; 

That  like  sequence 
Like  came  must  have. 

And  this  cold  power, 
With  iron  hand, 

At  ev'ry  hour 
Ruleth  the  land. 

Himself,  meanwhile, 
Forever  found — 

As  bondsman  wild, 
Securely  bound. 

In  sea  or  sky, 
Woodland  or  river ; 

Lowly  or  high, 
Forever,  ever 

He  is  the  same — 

Law  is  his  name. 


Higher,  more  high, 
Farther,  more  far 

Into  the  sky, 

O'er  sun  and  star  ; 

O'er  heedless  fate, 

O'er  Law's  estate, 
Riseth  the  sphere, 
And  far  and  near, 


THE   REIGN    OF    GOD. 

Obedience 

She  gladly  yields 
To  Providence  ; 

Since  He  reveals 
In  the  design 

Which  marks  all  things 
A  love  benign  : 

For  death  or  life, 


288 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


For  peace  or  strife  ; 
For  joy  or  grief, 
Pain  or  relief — 

All  is  to  save, 

All  is  to  lave 
The  spirit  in 
Wise  discipline. 
If  to  the  earth 

He  bringeth  care, 
Or  sin,  or  death, 

Or  dark  despair, 
It  is  to  bless — 
Not  to  oppress. 
Though  His  decree 

Has  no  appeal, 
Still,  we  may  see 


It  doth  reveal 

Unbounded  sight — 

Unbounded  might, 
And  love  that  can 
All  being  span. 

Above,  beneath, 
From  sky  or  sea. 

From  every  leaf 
Of  every  tree, 

We  may  rehearse, 
Law  is  the  lever 

Which  doth  inspire 
With  life  and  fire 

The  universe, 
Through  the  Law-Giver. 


INVOCATION  TO  THE  SPIRIT  OF  PHILOSOPHY. 

O  come,  thou  Ideal  of  my  thought — 
For  thee  long,  weary  days  I've  sought; 
For  thee  sad,  bitter  tears  have  shed ! 
For  thee  devoted  prayers  have  said. 
The  breezes  whisper  low  thy  name  ; 
The  rivulets  repeat  thy  fame ! 
The  sun,  the  sky,  the  leafy  tree — 
All,  all  things  speak  to  me  of  thee. 
0,  shine  upon  me  with  thy  grace, 
0,  circle  me  with  thy  embrace ! 
And  let  my  weary  head  have  rest 
Upon  thy  universal  breast ! 
God  bless  thee,  bless  thee  !  now  I  feel 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  289 

Thy  essence  through  my  pulses  steal, 

Oh  !  how  you  thrill  me  through  and  through. 

My  mind,  now  strong  and  free,  doth  scan 

The  world-soul's  universal  plan : 

My  eye  discerning,  now  can  see 

Not  being,  and  the  things  that  be, 

O,  hold  me  nearer,  closer,  till 

One  thought,  one  life  our  being  fill ! 

0,  kiss  me  with  thy  lips  of  fire, 

And  with  thy  spirit  mine  inspire  ! 

Alas !  alas  !  wildy  I  press 

Unto  my  bosom — nothingness  ! 

Gone,  gone  !  and  I  again  must  moan 

On  the  still  air — "  alone,  alone  1" 


THE  ABSENT  BRIDEGROOM. 

The  guests  are  at  old  Linden  Hall, 

And  there  a  voice  of  joy  and  mirth 
Is  echoed  from  each  frescoed  wall — 

From  many  a  lip  of  regal  birth  : 
And  nimble  feet  a  true  time-beat 

Upon  the  marble  floor, 
To  music,  ever  strong  and  sweet, 

Echoing  o'er  and  o'er. 
Now  high,  now  low,  now  quick,  now  slow; 

Now  like  the  strong  sea  breeze — 
As  if  't  were  hearts,  not  hands,  that  played 

Upon  the  trembling  keys — 
For  it  must  be  that  all  is  well : 

Soon  will  thy  lover  come,  Grizel ! 


290  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  young  bride  views  the  mirth  of  all, 

But  seems  herself  apart  to  dwell, 
As  up  and  down  she  walks  the  hall, 

Bound  by  some  fairy,  magic  spell. 
For  her  own  joy,  free  from  alloy, 

Is  all  too  deep  and  strong 
To  find  enchantment,  or  annoy, 

From  this  gay,  laughing  throng. 
But  does  she  dream  how  soon  will  gleam 

Upon  her  pathway  bright, 
The  angry  shafts  of  maddened  fate, 

Bringing  despair  and  blight  ? 
O,  ominous  !  can  it  be  well  ? 

Thy  lover  hath  not  come,  Grizel ! 

Slowly  the  hours  wane  on  apace, 

Bat  still  the  bridegroom  doth  not  come; 
And  dread,  caught  from  the  bride's  pale  face, 

Maketh  all  mirth  and  laughter  dumb. 
"  0,  dark  despair  !  where  is  he,  where  ? 

What  ill  luck  doth  betide  ? 
Has  he  forgot  his  lady  fair — 

Long  his  betrothed  bride  ?" 
Wildly  she  pressed  unto  her  breast, 

The  hands  he  oft  had  kissed ; 
Striving  from  cold  eyes  to  conceal 

His  presence,  how  much  missed. 
0,  death  and  hell !  can  it  be  well  ? 

Thy  lover  doth  not  come,  Grizel ! 

Her  pride,  at  length,  gave  way  to  fear, 

And  springing  wildly  to  her  feet, 
To  the  first  ready  horseman  near, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  291 

She  did  command  :  "  Be  fleet !  be  fleet ! 
Go,  mount  thy  steed,  and  in  hot  speed, 

Go  seek  my  lost  Cyrel ! 
And  let  thy  rapid  charger  heed 

Thy  knotted  spur  so  well. 
That  his  proud  heel  shall  never  feel 

The  ground  beneath  his  tread, 
Bat,  like  the  wind,  shall  skim  the  earth, 

Or  like  the  cannon's  lead." 
What  hath  befel  ?  can  it  be  well  ? 

Thy  lover  hath  not  come,  Grizel  ! 

The  mad  winds  blew  till  shrub  and  tree 

Screamed  wildly  'neath  their  tortured  pain  : 
And,  "Bring  my  lover  back  to  me," 

She  crieth  o'er  and  o'er  again. 
To  this  wild  prayer  the  troubled  air, 

Between  a  shriek  and  groan, 
Brings  back  the  words  :  "  Despair,  despair!" 

Henceforth  thou  well  may'st  moan  ; 
For  a  pale  Iride  is  at  his  side, 

She  woos  him  and  doth  win  ; 
She  leads  him  to  cold  Jordan's  stream, 

And  bids  him  enter  in. 
With  him  it  must  be  all  is  well, 

But  0,  with  thee— forlorn  Grizel ! 

At  length  was  heard  the  charger's  tread 

Advancing,  at  a  lightning  pace  ; 
And,  pale  with  mingled  hope  and  dread, 

Became  each  sad  and  anxious  face. 
Ah,  proud  Grizel !  view  thy  Cyrel 

Pale  as  thy  smock  of  white, 


292  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  wildly  cry,  it  is  not  well, 

And  kiss  thy  ghostly  knight; 
And  rudely  tear  from  thy  dark  hair 

The  rosebuds,  white  and  red  ; 
And,  with  thy  lips  upon  his  brow, 

Weep,  weep,  that  he  is  dead ! 
With  him  it  must  be  all  is  well, 

But  0,  with  thee — forlorn  Grizel ! 


IN  THE  NET. 

Ah,  Fate  accursed,  thy  chain  I  burst; 

Thy  power  now  is  o'er; 
I  now  am  free  from  Love  and  thee, 

I  am  your  slave  no  more ! 

Ah,  you  have  bound — ah,  you  have  wound 
Your  fetters  round  me  strong  ! 

Burst  in  twain,  thou  golden  chain — 
Fondled,  caressed,  too  long  ! 

No  more  to  thee  I  bend  the  knee, 

O  Love — uncertain  thing — 
For  what  of  joy  without  alloy 

Dost  thou,  to  any,  bring  ? 

What  dost  thou  bring  but  pang  and  sting, 
And  heart-ache,  sad  and  sore  ? 

Our  very  soul  to  the  control 
Of  others,  you  give  o'er. 

All  power  to  bless  with  happiness 
You  do  consign  to  one; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  293 

The  die  is  cast,  the  river  passed, 
He  proveth  false — undone  ! 

Ah  !  is  it  well  to  risk  a  hell 

Of  torment,  for  the  chance 
Of  winning,  in  the  world  of  sin, 

Truth — true  but  in  romance  ? 

Nay,  Cupid,  go  !  no  more  your  bow 

Shall  thrust  into  my  breast 
Its  arrows  wet  with  vain  regret, 

With  tears  of  grief — unrest. 

Nay,  do  not  speak — you  make  me  weak ; 

Tell  not  of  what  might  le ; 
With  eyes  not  blind  I  look  behind, 

And  things  that  are  I  see. 

The  married  face  bears  still  the  trace 

Of  unexpressed  desire ; 
The  married  life  is  passed  in  strife 

Around  the  kitchen  fire  : 

The  tenderness,  the  fond  caress 

Of  loved  and  lover  hence  ; 
No  more  they  grasp,  in  gentle  clasp, 

The  hand,  with  pulse  intense. 

Ah,  Love,  thou  sprite  of  dark  and  light, 

Thou  spirit,  young  and  old, 
These  owned  your  thrall,  these  gave  you  all; 

You  left  them  in  the  cold ! 

Then,  Cupid,  go;  no  more  your  bow 
Shall  thrust  into  my  breast 


294  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Its  arrows  wet  with  sad  regret — • 
With  tears  of  grief — unrest. 

Ah  !  vain  decree,  for  now  I  see, 

Before  my  fancy  rise 
A  mimic  glance — sweet  dalliance — • 

From  those  dark,  handsome  eyes. 

That  manly  face — movement  of  grace- 
That  way,  not  to  be  told  ! 

That  tenderness  but  half  expressed — 
All  these  around  me  fold, 

And  hold  me  near,  till  without  fear 

I  yield — without  regret : 
Ah,  Love,  thy  art  well  learned  by  heart, 

Now  hath  me  in  the  net ! 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  COEDIE. 

The  bridal  wreath  was  on  her  brow, 
And  on  her  lips  the  bridal  vow, 
Five  weeks  ago;  but  naught,  to-day 
Is  left,  of  her  young  life,  but  clay. 

Her  pulse  is  still — her  eyes  are  closed  $ 
She  sleepeth  now  the  pale  repose. 
Ah,  brother,  sister,  gather  near 
And  pour  the  unavailing  tear. 

The  sharer  of  your  youthful  plays  — 
Companion  of  your  older  days, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  295 

Gone,  now,  and  left  you  to  each  other — 
Lonely  sister,  lonely  brother. 

Ah,  father,  mother,_now  ye  know 
The  bitter  grief,  the  bitter  woe 
Of  broken  ties ;  one  doted  on 
Forever  from  the  circle  gone. 

Your  table  has  a  vacant  place, 
Your  home  has  lost  a  smiling  face  ; 
No  more,  in  all  your  walks,  you  hear 
That  gentle  voice  of  merry  cheer. 

And  now  the  childish,  winning  ways 
Of  her  bright,  happy,  girlhood  days 
Come  to  your  mem'ry  once  again, 
And  make  the  more  your  grief  and  pain. 

You  see  the  little  trundle-bed — 
Hear  how  her  baby-prayer  she  said ; 
"  Lord,  now  I  lay  me  down  to  sleep," 
Father,  mother,  well  may  ye  weep. 

Ah,  lover,  kiss  thy  cold,  cold  bride, 
Now  gone  forever  from  thy  side ; 
And  rashly  curse  this  hard  decree, 
And  wildly  cry,  it  should  not  be. 

But  yesterday  you  called  her  wife — 
Both  in  the  morning  of  your  life — 
But  yesterday  she  gave  to  you 
Her  hand,  with  pledges  warm  and  true. 

And  now  !  ah,  hard — ah,  hard  it  seems 
That  she — wife  of  your  boyhood  dreams — 


296  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Should  thus  in  haste  be  snatched  away, 
The  plighted  bride  of  Death,  to-day  ! 

Ye  fairy  hopes,  harbored  with  care, 
Ye  roving  fancies,  wild  and  fair, 
Where  are  ye  now  ?  where  have  ye  fled  ? 
Shrouded  with  her  who  lieth  dead  ! 

No  more,  no  more  your  hands  will  press 
Her  own,  in  gentle,  fond  caress ; 
No  more  her  eyes  in  yours  will  seek 
To  read  the  love  you  could  not  speak. 

No  more — for  she  is  dead — is  dead  : 
The  light  gone  out,  the  spirit  fled ! 
0  God !  you  cry,  why  throw  the  pall 
On  her,  so  cherished  by  us  all. 

But,  peace  !  I  hear  a  still  small  voice 
Cry  from  the  clouds:  "Rejoice,  rejoice  ! 

0  darling  ones,  I  have  gone  home  ; 

1  now  by  peaceful  waters  roam." 

"  Then  wipe  your  eyes ;  no  longer  weep ; 
I  am  not  dead,  I  do  not  sleep, 
But  here,  upon  this  better  shore, 
I  watch  and  wait  till  ye  come  o'er." 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  297 


A.   A.    EARLE, 

EDITOR  AND   PROPRIETOR    OF   THE  "  ORLEANS  INDEPENDENT   STANDARD"   AT   BARTON- 

ALSO  OP  THE  "  TIMES"  AT  ST.  JOHNSBURY. 


BY  THE  CONNECTICUT. 

'Tvvas  harvest  eve  when  last  adovvn  thy  winding  stream  I 

strayed, 

Each  silver  star  was  shining  far  o'er  hill  and  grassy  glade  ; 
The  pale  round  moon,  effulgent,  poured  her  rays  of  liquid 

light, 
As  slowly,  proudly  up  she  rolled,  the  peerless  queen  of  night. 

The  whispering  winds  that  sadly  sighed,  the  sultry  sum 
mer  day, 

Now  wantoned  with  thy  limpid  drops,  then  sped  them  on 
their  way ; 

Thy  winsome  waters  caught  the  strain,  and  sweeping,  grand 
and  free, 

Together  sang  an  anthem,  old  as  angel-minstrelsy. 

The  husbandman,  with  weary  feet,  had  to  his  home  returned  : 
To  shun  the  labors  of  the  day,  his  manly  soul  had  spurned ; 
The  frugal  meal,  toil  sweetened,    o'er,  and  care  and  sor 
row  fled, 
His  household,  each  in  unison,  breathe  blessings  on  his  head. 

While  pond'ring,  wond'ring  thus  I  strolled,  my  soul  in  pen 
sive  cast, 

I  dwelt  upon  the  future  years,  and  sorrowed  o'er  the  past; 
I  saw  Oppression's  iron  car,  where  Terror  rears  her  throne, 
Move  mournfully  and  surely  on,  and  heard  her  victims  groan. 


298  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

In  Mem'ry  saw  I  once  again  the  Indian's  birchen  boat 
Skim  softly  o'er  from  shore  to  shore,  lightly  as  fairies  float. 
The  Indian  climbed  the    mountain's    cliff,  and    scaled    its 

craggy  crest, 
That  like  a  giant,  old  and  grim,  lay  mirrored  on  thy  breast. 

The  eagle  in  her  eyrie  on  Monadnock's  rocky  height, 

In  craven  fear  at  his  wild  cheer,  her  pinions  plumed  for 

flight. 
The  fierce  Algonquins  of  the  north — iinconquered  kings  in 

fray, 
Swooped  grandly  down,  in  conscious  pride,  to  Narragansett 

Bay. 

The  Micmacs  and  Pokanokets,  Pequots  and  Iroquois, 
In  warlike  trim   each  marshaled  him,  in  cruel  death's  em 
ploy  ; 

And  Metamora,  Massasoit,  King  Philip's  tireless  braves, 
Have  reached  their  happy  hunting-grounds — they  sleep  in, 
glorious  graves. 

From  where  St.  Lawrence's  frantic  floods  meet  wild  Atlan 
tic's  sands, 

To  Champlain's  calm  and  crystal  depths,  roved  free  and 
happy  bands. 

Ah,  nevermore  shall  streamlet's  shore  give  greeting  to 
their  tread  ; 

A  grim  and  spectral  cavalcade  moves  through  the  realms 
of  shade. 

Kind  spirit  of  the  dreamy  past,  whose  truths  unceasing  flow, 
Pray  tell  how  passed  from  earth  away — and  speak,  in  whis 
pers  low. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  299 

• 
Each  breath  that  fans  the  fevered  brow,  the  west  wind's 

solemn  sigh, 
With  pen  of  iron,  on  ray  soul,  engrave  this  stern  reply : 


The  Christian  came  with  sword  and  flame — farewell  peace, 

honor,  now  ! 

With  hands  uplifted  high  to  heaven,  I  hear  his  solemn  vow  ; 
Like  some  foul  bird's  ill-omened  wing,  that  flaps  in  empty 

air, 
I  see  the  treach'rous  Mayflower's  sails — I  list  the  pilgrims' 

prayer. 

I  see  that  despot  band  kneel  low  on  Plymouth's  hostile  shore, 

While  mingling  their  ascriptions  grand  with  ocean's  win 
try  roar; 

No  deep-toned  organ's  thrilling  notes,  nor  quaint  cathedral 
bell 

Keeps  time  or  tune  in  harmony  with  their  rich  anthem's 
swell. 

The    prayers    are  said,  the  songs  are  o'er,  the  Indian  in 

amaze 

Now  hears  the  deadly  rifle  ring!  his  wigwam  sees  ablaze! 
He  yields  him  to  the  Christian  steel,  as  sand  yields  to  the 

wave  ! 
He  lived  an  untamed  nobleman,  and  died  no  lordling's  slave. 

Farewell,  bright  stream  !  still  dost  thou  roll  thy  murm'ring 

floods  along 
Where  wave  rich  fields  of  golden  grain,  and  rustic  reapers 

throng. 

No  poet-pencil  ever  traced  sublimer  scene  than  thine ! 
None,  save  the  golden  streams  of  heaven,  than  thee  are 

more  divine. 


300  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

% 
CHRISTMAS  HYMN. 

Let  all  who  love  the  LOUD  proclaim 
The  crucified  Redeemer's  name, 
Till  ev'ry  land  shall  own  its  sway, 
And  nations  learn  the  wondrous  Way. 

Bend  low  the  knee  to  Bethlehem's  Child, 
Whose  peaceful  banner  rules  the  world, 
His  name,  His  power,  His  righteousness, 
All  lands  shall  own — all  lands  shall  bless. 

When  ev'ry  nation,  tribe,  and  tongue, 
In  accents  sweet,  His  name  have  sung, 
In  power  and  glory  shall  He  come 
To  bear  earth's  ransomed  children  home. 

0,  praise  the  Lord!  shout — shout  His  name, 
And  set  the  heavenly  choir  aflame ! 
Lift  high  to  Him  each  tuneful  soul, 
Long  as  the  endless  ages  roll. 

High  raise  His  banner,  then,  on  earth, 
And  shout  that  name  of  matchless  worth  ; 
Strike  lute  and  lyre,  His  peans  swell, 
Who  conquers  death,  the  grave,  and  hell. 


WHERE  IS  GOD  ? 

0  where  is  God?     Enthroned  on  high, 
In  realms  of  blissful  majesty; 
Where  angel  hosts  and  seraphs  bright 
Forever  bask  in  purest  light. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  3Q1 

Sits  He  who  rules  in  sov'reign  sway — 
Whose  mandates  myriad  worlds  obey. 

O  where  is  God  ?     The  mountains  hoar, 
Whose  bald  peaks  list  the  wind's  wild  roar  ; 
And  Amazon — Missouri's  flood  ; 
The  holy  Ganges — stream  of  blood — 
And  all  the  isles  that  deck  the  sea, 
His  habitation  sure  shall  be. 

O  where  is  God  ?     In  ev'ry  breeze 
That  strolls  and  whispers  'mid  the  trees  ; 
In  ev'ry  pebbly  brook  that  gleams 
And  flashes  back  the  sun's  bright  beams  5 
In  verdant  vale  or  woodland  green, 
Thy  dwelling  place,  0  Lord,  is  seen. 

0  where  is  God  ?     The  trackless  deep, 
Whose  mighty  billows  dash  and  leap — 
Each  twink'iing  lamp  that  burns  on  high, 
And  lights  the  broad  expanse  of  sky — 
Each  bird  and  bee  that  flits  in  air, 
Proclaim  that  God  is  everywhere. 


MISS  CAERIE  E.  RICHARDSON, 

FORMERLY  OF  PEACHAM— now  OF  ALGOXAC,  MICHIGAN. 

COLD  WATER. 

Cold  water — pure  water!  away  with  champagne, 
The  charms  of  the  spoiler  are  brandished  in  vain, 
While  a  nectar  far  sweeter  than  Jupiter  sips, 


302  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

We  raise  from  its  fountain  and  press  to  our  lips. 
Cold  water — pure  water  ! — wine  blushes  for  shame 
To  know,  with  its  presence,  what  wretchedness  came, 
Then  water  the  thirst  of  the  millions  shall  slake, 
'T  is  clear  as  the  crystal  from  which  they  partake. 

From  this  wonderful  treasure, 

This  source  of  rich  pleasure, 

This  joy  beyond  measure, 

"  Here  's  a  health  to  you  all." 

Cold  water — pure  water  ! — hence  brandy  and  rum  ! 

Your  bane  for  each  blessing  shall  never  more  come; 

For  we'  11  break  the  strong  fetters  which  bind  with  a  ban, 

While  flows,  for  the  taking,  this  blessing  to  man, 

Cold  water — pure  water! — no  porter,  no  beer: 

The  thought  of  their  presence  would  mar  our  good  cheer, 

For  we  sing  of  cold  water,  the  nectar  of  life. 

Which  brings  no  dissension,  and  wakens  no  strife. 

From  this  wonderful  treasure, 

This  source  of  rich  pleasure, 

Tliis  joy  beyond  measure, 

''  Here  's  a  health  to  you  all." 

Cold  water — pure  water  ! — bid  toddy  retreat, 

While  we  sing  of  the  water  which  flows  at  our  feet; 

For  it  brings  no  disaster,  no  want  and  no  woe, 

But  crowns  us  with  blessings  wherever  we  go. 

Cold  water — pure  water  ! — no  whisky,  no  gin  ; 

Of  the  reign  of  these  tyrants  we  '11  say — "  it  has  been." 

Then  cense  to  discard — do  you  ask  where  our  bliss? 

We  point  to  cold  water,  and  answer — "  't  is  this." 

From  this  wonderful  treasure. 

This  source  of  rich  pleasure, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  303 

This  joy  beyond  measure, 

4<  Here  's  a  health  to  you  all." 

Cold  water — pure  water ! — thtice  welcome  our  friend  ; 
Bring  health,  wealth  and  plenty  till  life  have  an  end  ; 
No  widow  shall  view  thee,  then  mournfully  sigh, 

Alas  for  the  tempter  ! — alas  thoti  wast  nio-h  ! 

No  orphan  upbraid  thee,  or  bitterly  moan, 
Ah  me  ! — for  thy  presence  how  weep  I  alone  ! 
Cold  water—  pure  water  !— what  blessings  are  thine  ; 
What  joy  dost  thou  bring  us,  what  peace  half  divine  ! 

From  this  wonderful  treasure, 

This  source  of  rich  pleasure, 

This  joy  beyond  measure, 

"  Here  's  a  health  to  you  all." 


THE  WHITE  SAIL. 

Come  quickly,  sister  Ethel, 

And  tell  me  if  there  be 
A  white  sail  moving  land-ward, 

Ear  out  upon  the  sea. 
It  may  be  but  the  moonbeams, 

They  've  cheated  me  before, 
But  fond  hope  seems  to  whisper 

That  it  is  something  more. 

My  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching, 
Oh  !  tell  me  if  there  be 

A  white  sail  moving  land-ward, 
With  joy  for  you  and  me  ? 


304 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

You  '11  know  it,  little  Ethel, 
Our  mother's  name  in  gold, 

The  broad  sail  just  above  it, 
You  '11  know,  if  you  behold. 

Then  hasten,  sister  Ethel, 

And  tell  me  what  you  see ; 
Is  there  a  white  sail  coming, 

With  joy  for  you  and  me  ? 
Or  is  it  but  the  moonbeams 

Upon  the  passing  wave, 
Like  weird,  wild  spirits,  dancing 

Above  some  sailor's  grave  ? 

'T  is  just  four  years,  my  darling, 

Since  father  sailed  away, 
Oh,  well  do  I  remember 

The  dreary  parting-day  ! 
Our  mother's  face,  so  pallid, 

It  haunts  my  slumbers  yet — 
That  look  of  weary  anguish 

I  never  can  forget. 

Oh  Ethel,  sister  Ethel ! 

Come  nearer  to  my  side, 
And  place  your  tiny  fingers 

Upon  my  palm  so  wide. 
I  'm  stronger  when  you  're  near  me, 

It  gives  me  power  to  bear. 
Sweet  Ethel,  gentle  Ethel ! 

You  're  like  your  mother  fair. 

He  called  me,  little  sister, 
His  "darling  blue  eyed-boy," 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  395 

And  then  he  said,  "My  Benny, 

You  '11  be  your  mother's  joy : 
You  '11  comfort  her  in  sorrow, 

The  years  will  fly  away, 
Until  the  white  sail  brings  you 

Your  father  back,  one  day." 

You  were  an  infant,  sister ; 

I  was  a  boy  of  four, 
When  father's  noble  vessel 

Pushed  sea-ward  from  the  shore. 
Oh,  long  we  watched  and  waited ! 

Our  waiting  was  in  vain; 
We  saw  no  white  sail  coming 

For  us  across  the  main. 

Our  mother's  step  grew  feeble, 

No  smile  lit  up  her  eye  ; 
One  day  she  called  me  to  her, 

And  said  that  she  must  die. 
I  hardly  knew  her  meaning, 

But  something  seemed  to  say, 
She,  too,  would  shortly  leave  us, 

As  father  did,  one  day. 

And  when  she  saw  me  shudder, 

And  tears  bedim  my  eyes, 
She  drew  me  fondly  to  her, 

'Mid  weary,  weary  sighs, 
And  whispered,  oh  so  gently  ! 

"  My  Benny,  do  not  grieve  ; 
A  white  sail  cometh  for  me, 

And  I  must  shortly  leave. 


306  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"  A  white  sail  cometh  for  me, 
But  not  your  father's,  dear, 

'T  is  Hearing,  swiftly  Hearing, 
And  it  will  soon  be  here : 

And  when  with  the  pale  boatman 
I  Ve  passed  from  off  the  shore, 

Be  kind  to  sister  Ethel- 
Yon  ever  were  before. 

And  tell  your  father,  Benny, 

When  he  comes  back  from  sea, 
How  sadly  I  have  missed  him — 

How  dear  he  is  to  me." 
Too  soon  the  boatman  called  her, 

Then  pushed  from  off  the  shore ; 
I  sometimes  fear,  my  Ethel, 

We  '11  see  her  never  more ; 

For  many  months  have  wasted, 

Since  first  she  left  our  side, 
And  yet  no  white  sail  cometh 

For  us,  across  the  tide. 
No  white  sail  cometh,  Ethel ; 

And,  oh,  the  dreary  pain ! 
Our  weary,  weary  watching 

Must  ever  be  in  vain. 

But  look  once  more,  sweet  sister, 
And  tell  me  if  there  be 

A  white  sail  moving  land-ward 
With  joy  for  you  and  me. 

You  '11  know  it,  little  Ethel- 
Cur  mother's  name  in  gold; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  397 

The  broad  sail,  just  above  it, 
You  '11  know  if  you  behold. 


RAN  AWAY. 

Ran  away  from  the  sober  farm-house, 

Just  under  the  sloping  hill, 
Two  wee  little,  bare,  brown  feetlings, 

That  find  it  so  hard  to  be  still. 
They  've  carried  their  brave  little  owner 

Through  mischief,  and  frolic,  and  play ; 
And  to-day,  I  am  sorry  to  say  it, 

They  Ve  carried  my  baby  away. 

Come  back  to  me,  little  brown  feetlings, 

With  your  pattering  steps  so  light, 
Come  back  to  me  now,  my  darling, 

You  Ve  given  us  such  a  fright. 
We  Ve  searched  the  house  and  the  garden, 

The  orchard,  the  barn  and  the  field  ; 
Oh,  I  pray  that  some  guardian  angel 

My  runaway  boy  will  shield  ! 

Far  down  through  the  rankest  clover, 

A  wee  little  path  I  see, 
It  is  just  about  large  enough,  darling, 

For  a  run-away  boy  of  three  : 
And  bright,  through  the  waving  blossoms, 

Comes  a  glimpse  of  something  red  : 
I  Ve  found  you,  at  last,  young  truant  ; 

'T  is  the  cap  on  my  runaway's  head. 


308  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Two  poor,  little,  tired  feetlings, 

'Mong  the  clover  and  daisies  lain, 
Two  hardy  brown  hands  with  their  dimples, 

All  covered  with  strawberry-stain. 
Two  eyes,  with  the  lashes  o'er  them, 

Bright  curls  on  the  healthy  brow— 
I  've  found  you,  at  last,  my  darling, 

And  I  '11  waken  my  baby  now. 

You  've  sought  for  your  gentle  slumber 

The  buttercup's  home,  my  boy, 
With  the  musical  cricket  beside  you, 

The  grasshopper  singing  for  joy  ; 
And  the  breezes  that  wander  so  gently, 

Through  the  clover-tops  over  your  head, 
Are  soft  as  the  voice  of  affection, 

To  the  whispers  of  angels  wed. 

But  the  farm-house  is  lonely  without  you, 

Come  back  to  it,  little  brown  feet ; 
Come  back  with  that  gentle  patter, 

So  musical  and  so  sweet. 
And  I  pray  the  great  "  All  Father," 

While  the  years  glide  swiftly  by, 
To  guide  the  little  brown  feetlings 

In  the  path  that  leads  on  high. 


AT  THE  DAWNING. 

"  At  the  dawning — oh,  remember !  " 

From  her  white  lips  came  the  prayer, 
While  the  breezes  of  September 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  309 

Stirred  the  tresses  of  her  hair. 
"  You  must  bury  me  at  dawning, 

When  my  spirit  's  fled  away, 
In  the  early,  early  morning, 

'Mid  the  purple  flush  of  day. 

"  You  must  promise  then  to  cover 

Mine  own  with  its  kindred  clay ; 
For  I  know  the  angels  hover 

Nearest  earth  at  break  of  day  : 
There  's  a  dullness  creeping  o'er  me, 

There  's  a  weight  upon  my  breath, 
And  the  shadows,  thick  before  me, 

Are  the  heralds  sent  by  death. 

"  Go  without  the  garden  wicket, 

'Neath  the  branching  linden  tree 
Standing  near  the  vocal  thicket ; 

Hollow  there  a  grave  for  me. 
Let  the  night  dews  gently  press  it ; 

They  are  tears  by  angels  shed  ; 
Let  the  passing  winds  caress  it, 
Sighing  for  the  early  dead. 

"  Mark  the  moon-beams,  when  they  linger 

In  a  last,  faint  farewell  ray ; 
When  the  night,  with  jeweled  fingers, 

Beckons  to  the  rising  day. 
Carry,  then,  this  lifeless  casket 

To  the  fresh  and  fragrant  lawn ; 
As  a  precious  boon  I  ask  it, 

Bury  me  at  early  dawn. 


310  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"  At  the  dawning — at  the  dawning, 

When  the  wild  birds  carol  free, 
In  the  early,  early  morning, 

Heap  the  cold  earth  over  me. 
You  must  bury  me  at  dawning" 

Once,  again,  she  strove  to  say — 
"  You  must  bury  me  at  dawning," 

And  her  spirit  passed  away. 


LITTLE  BY  LITTLE. 

Little  by  little,  hums  the  bee, 
Little  by  little  's  the  motto  for  me, 
I  busily  work  each  shining  hour, 
Flitting  along  from  flower  to  flower  ,* 
Sipping  the  sweets  from  each  beautiful  fern, 
Gathering  food  ere  the  winter  storm, 
A  little  here — a  little  there, 
A  little  sweetness  everywhere. 

Little  by  little  the  acorn  said 
To  the  giant  oak  tree  over  head ; 
Little  by  little,  the  germ  will  grow, 
Little  by  little,  sure  and  slow. 
Long  time  will  pass  in  a  tedious  round 
To  sink  my  roots  in  the  foster  ground — 
Ere  the  sapling  stands  by  the  parent's  side, 
As  hardy  in  form,  and  as  haughty  in  pride. 

Little  by  little,  the  ocean  cries ; 
Little  by  little,  the  cloud  replies ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS  311 

Little  by  little,  I  drink  of  the  sea ; 

Little  by  little  's  the  motto  for  me. 

I  gather  the  raindrops,  far  and  near, 

A  little  there— a  little  here  ; 

And  I  scatter  them  wide,  with  a  faithful  hand, 

A  few  little  raindrops  to  every  land. 

Little  by  little,  ambition  said, 

And  pressed  a  hand  to  an  aching  head ; 

Little  by  little,  the  prize  is  won, 

Little  by  little  the  task  is  done. 

Patiently  plodding,  day  by  day, 

Toiling  along  a  weary  way, 

May  I  stand,  at  last,  on  the  rock  of  fame, 

Little  by  little  to  carve  a  name. 

Little  by  little,  all  nature  cries ; 
Little  by  little,  the  heart  replies ; 
Little  by  little  the  goal  is  won  ; 
Little  by  little  all  good  is  done. 
How  shall  we  banish  the  tyrant  woe  ? 
Not  with  the  power  of  a  single  blow; 
But  little  by  little — here  and  there 
Scatter  the  clouds  of  doubt  and  care. 


312  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


ALBERT    R.  SAVAGE,  A.  B., 

FORMERLY  OF  RYEGATE,  VT. — now  A  RESIDENT  OF  LANCASTER,  N.  IT.,  AND  GRADUATE 
01  DARTMOUTH  COLLEGE,  CLASS  OF  1871. 


JENNIE  AND  I. 

Two  little,  prattling  children  we — 

Jennie  and  I, 
Careless  and  wild  as  we  could  be, 

Jennie  and  I. 

Twelve  years  had  flowed  their  course  for  me, 
And  ten  for  her — as,  childishly, 
We  prattled  on,  and  joyously — 

Jennie  and  I. 

We  played,  as  suited  a  childish  whim — 

Jennie  and  I ; 
We  danced  on  the  meadow's  velvet  green — 

Jennie  and  I : 

Together  we  wandered  over  the  hills, 
And,  hand  in  hand,  leaped  over  the  rills, 
With  joy  that  ever  a  child-heart  fills — 

Jennie  and  I. 

We  were  happy  and  free  as  the  summer-air — 

Jennie  and  I ; 
No  trace  of  sorrow,  or  thought  of  care — 

Jennie  and  I  ; 

Our  childish  trust  increased  the  more, 
As  we  whispered  each  other,  o'er  and  o'er, 
The  love  to  each  the  other  bore — 

Jennie  and  I. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  313 

Long  years  have  passed  since  last  we  met — 
Jennie  and  1 ; 

We  parted  with  many  a  fond  regret— 
Jennie  and  I :  - 

Early  she  crossed  the  vague  unknown, 

And  I  am  waiting  all  alone — 

Waiting  for  her  to  bid  me  come — 
Jennie  and  I. 

In  the  Heaven  above  we  soon  shall  meet — 

Jennie  and  I ; 
And  walk  together  the  golden  street — 

Jennie  and  I; 

Never  again  shall  our  parting  be  : 
We  '11  wake,  together,  the  sweetest  lay 
Forever,  in  Heaven's  eternal  day — 

Jennie  and  I. 


TOLL,  TOLL,  TOLL ! 

Toll,  toll,  toll, 

The  knell  of  a  buried  hope — 
Of  a  hope  that  was  life,  but  is  life  no  more  ; 
Of  a  life  that  is  worn  as  the  sea-beat  shore, 

That  has  left  but  the  dregs  in  the  cup. 

Chant,  chant,  chant, 

The  dirge  of  a  human  joy ; 
Can  aught  be  so  dead  as  a  withered  delight, 
Of  a  spiritless  void  in  the  heart — the  light 

Of  desponding,  the  only  alloy  ? 


314  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Roll,  Roll,  Roll, 

O  waves  of  the  ocean,  roll ! 
On  the  ocean  of  life  is  many  a  bark  ; 
The  black  clouds  are  over — before  is  all  dark, 

0,  roll  then,  secure,  to  their  goal ! 

Weep,  weep,  weep, 

Let  a  tear,  in  sympathy,  fall  ; 
How  blest  is  the  spirit  that  sorrow  hath  known, 
Not  a  tear  to  the  ground  falls  unnoticed,  unknown ; 

In  mercy  God  measures  them  all. 

Knock,  knock,  knock  ! 

At  the  door  of  a  human  soul : 
Without  is  the  gilding — a  tumult  within  ; 
Confusion  and  discord — the  wages  of  sin — 

Are  more  than  the  death  of  a  soul. 

Pray,  pray,  pray, 

To  the  Father  of  light  above, 
For  a  love,  that  shall  drive  from  the  sun  away 
The  clouds  of  hate,  that  darken  the  day ; 

For  a  Heaven  of  light  and  love. 


THOUGHTS  ON  DEATH. 

O  Death !    how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Not  the  pale  angel,  whose  approaching  steps  we  fear, 
But  messenger  of  love :    even  though  the  message  bear 

But  harshly  on  a  quivering  heart. 

Death  leads  the  weary  pilgrim  home, 
Foot-sore  and  feeble,  waiting  on  the  hither  sand ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  315 

With  Death  the  tide  he  crosses,  gains  the  heavenly  strand, 
The  golden  harp,  the  starry  crown. 

How  well,  how  beautifully  bright 

The  blow,  even  as  it  falls  on  childhood's  careless  brow  ! 
That  loving  voice,  so  silent  here,  is  singing  now 

Beyond  the  veil  that  shuts  our  sight. 

Death  does  not  rob  us  of  our  gem  ; 
We  mourn  the  casket  where  the  priceless  jewel  lay, 
The  while  a  guardian  angel  bears  it  swift  away 

To  grace  our  Father's  diadem. 

How  passing  beautiful  that  sleep 
That  gently  falls  upon  the  silvered  brow  of  years, 
And  shuts  the  weary  eyelids,  filled  with  tears, 

And  opes  them,  never  more  to  weep  ! 

Call  not  again  the  fleeting  breath, 

Do  not  enchain  it  to  the  transitory  clay,  [day — 

Death's  wand  will  change  the  passing  night  to  endless 

How  beautiful  art  thou,  0  Death  ! 


MRS.  OLIVE  E.  P.  THOMAS, 

OF  SALISBURY. 

TO  MY  MOTHER. 

While  worlds  roll  on  their  track  of  light, 
And  human  souls  are  gleaming 

Immortal  tints  of  bloom  or  blight, 
Amid  life's  solemn  meaning ; 


316  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

A  wand  of  magic  power  will  move 
The  world's  great  heart  to  duty, 

Whose  strongest  throbs  shall  sweetly  prove 
Its  influence  and  beauty. 

We  sing  of  love,  a  mother's  own, 

Blent  with  our  life's  awaking; 
How  dear  no  human  heart  hath  known, 

Till  death  the  bond  is  breaking. 
We  wreathe  our  lips  with  smiles  to-day, 

For  joy  is  o'er  us  shining, 
And  springing  blossoms  gild  our  way 

At  every  hour's  declining. 

But  deep  within  our  fervent  souls 

Are  tones,  the  while  we  listen 
The  backward  surge  of  memory  rolls 

With  tears  our  eyes  to  glisten. 
Oh,  Mother  mine  !  the  gliding  years 

Have  kept  the  visions  tender, 
That  hallow  all  the  hopes  and  fears 

Of  childhood's  wasted  splendor  ! 

And  thou  dost  shine  a  star  serene 

Above  the  days  departed, 
Affection  twines  the  laurels  green; 

Oh,  strong  and  tender-hearted  ! 
Though  severed  from  thee,  every  hour 

We  pause  and  question,  breathless, 
If  we  have  fully  prized  thy  dower 

Of  human  love,  yet  deathless. 

Thine  was  the  blessedness  of  trust, 
That  wearies  not  in  giving, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  317 

A  morning  dew  amid  the  dust 

Upon  our  earthly  living. 
Thy  placid  smile  no  treachery  held, 

Its  brightening  glow  will  linger 
Till  rising  cares  are  all  dispelled 

By  death's  relentless  finger. 

Thine  was  the  sweet  forgiving  grace 

Each  youthful  error  hiding, 
Thy  prayer  we  know,  whate'er  our  place, 

Is  on  our  fate  abiding. 
We  've  seen  thee  in  thy  noon  of  pride, 

Thy  life  a  dream  enchanted, 
We  've  felt  thy  tearless  woe  abide 

When  death  his  arrow  planted. 

We  've  stood  within  thy  widowed  home, 

We  've  marked  thy  pale  lips  quiver, 
And  known  thy  heart  lay  'neath  the  stone — 

Thy  hope  beyond  the  river. 
We  've  prayed  that  loving  human  hands 

Would  smooth  thy  path  of  sorrow ; 
God's  peace  above  thy  pillow  stand, 

And  cheer  each  lonely  morrow. 

Oh,  ever  fondly  do  we  turn 

To  thee,  with  thoughts  of  blessing, 
Amid  life's  changes  pause,  and  yearn 

For  thy  kind  arm's  caressing. 
Though  tender  love  our  life  enfolds, 

And  hope  is  bright  before  us, 
Thy  face  will  beam  till  evening  cold, 

A  guardian  angel  o'er  us. 


318  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  this  will  be  our  fervent  prayer  — 

That  we  may  be  united  ; 
Who  Ve  known  thy  care,  in  mansions  where 

No  flowers  by  death  are  blighted. 
Dear  Mother  !  when  the  blessedness 

Of  home  will  not  be  riven, 
The  band  we  prize  serenely  rest 

Within  the  peace  of  Heaven. 


DEATH  IN  THE  "GOLDEN  LAND." 

A  miner  laid  him  down  to  rest  beneath  a  stranger  sky- 
Parched  ^vvith  the  glowing  fever  heat,  he  laid  him  down  to 

die : 

One  comrade  lingered  by  his  side,  to  soothe  his  dying  pain  ; 
To  list  his  parting  words  and  weep,  when  death  had  rent 

the  chain. 

His  waving  hair,  tossed  o'er  a  brow  of  beauty,  fair  and  high- 
How  sad,  that  one  so  noble  thus  in  loneliness  should  die. 
"Come  nearer  to  me,  brother,  now!"  the  pale  lips  softly 

said ; 
1  Soon  will  this  form  of  mine  lie  low,  amid  the  gathered  dead. 

"Oh,  cease  thy  bitter  weeping,  for  life's  last  hour  has  come, 
And  I  would  have  thee  bear  my  words  of  love  to  those  at 

home. 
Oh  home  !  dear  home,  how  sweet  the  sound,  it  dims  e'en 

now  my  eye, 
For  oh !  I  'm  thinking  't  would  be  blest  in  that  loved  spot 

to  die  : 
I  'm  thinking  of  the  sad  adieu,  the  tearful,  prayerful  band— 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  319 

The  hour  when  last  I  looked  upon  my  own,  my  native  land ; 
When,  full  of  hope,  the  proud  ship  sailed,  and  fancy  pictured 

o'er 

Alluring  scenes  of  wealth  and  -gold  upon  this  far-off  shore. 
"I  'm  thinking  of  a  mother's  love,  her  fond,  her  last  farewell, 
A  father's  hand,  in  blessing  given  ;  how  tremblingly  it  fell — 
A  sister's  kiss — her  clinging  arms  so  wildly  round  us  thrown, 
For  we  were  all — the  only  sons,  the  idols  of  our  home. 
My  father  !  thou  wilt  be  his  staff,  when  he  is  growing  old — 
My  mother  !  sister  !  would  these  arms  once  more  could  round 

you  fold ; 

These  lips  again  be  pressed  to  yours,  as  in  the  days  gone  by 
Then  calmly  could  I  all  resign — then  joyfully  I  'd  die  ! 

"Oh  tell  them  that  I  've  loved  them  well,  and  in  my  dying 

hour 
Their  memory  twined  around  my  soul,  with  an  o'ermaster- 

ing  power ; 

Tell  them  I  heeded,  cherished  all  the  counsels  that  they  gave, 
And  Christ  hath  given  a  victory  o'er  the  terrors  of  the  grave  ; 
Thou  know'est  the  precious  Bible  given,  a  guide  hath  ever 

been, 

Unto  the  wanderer's  erring  feet,  a  shield  from  deeds  of  sin  ! 
And  bid  them  not  to  mourn  for  me — for,  on  a  brighter  shore, 
I  '11  wait  to  welcome  them,  where  death  and  tears  will  come 

no  more. 

"And  there's  another  dear  one,  still  waiting  at  home  forme" 
My  voice  grows  faint — oh,  do  n't  forget  this  message  given 

to  thee  ! 
Thou  'It   meet   her — tell — oh,  tell   her  how  her  fond  and 

trusting  love 
Hath  made  my  life  an  Eden  path,  like  to  the  land  above  ! 


320  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Her  pictured  face  ! — I'd  gaze  again  within  the  beaming  eyes. 
Can  aught  be  fairer,  brother  dear,  within  God's  Paradise  ? 
Lay  this  sweet  image  near  my  heart,  when  I  am  cold  in  death, 
And  tell  her  that  I  blessed  her  name,  e'en  with  my  latest 
breath. 

"  I  'm  sad  to  leave  thee,  brother,  here  in  this  far  land  alone  ; 

But  God  will  be  a  friend  still  near — oh,  look  unto  His  throne. 

He  bids  me  come  up  higher,  and  I  see  the  angel  band — 

A  joy  that  is  unfading  waits  me  in  that  better  land  ! 

Death's  dew  is  on  my  forehead,  and  I  cannot  see  thy  face — 

Oh,  check  thy  tears,  and  fold  me  close,  within  one  last  em 
brace." 

Then  cold  the  brow  of  beauty  grew ;  smiles  o'er  the  pale 
lips  fell  ; 

"I'm  going  home!"  he  murmured  low,  "dear  brother — 
fare  thee  well !" 

The  love  light  slowly  faded  then,  from  out  the  beaming  eye, 
And  spirit-wings,  unfolding,  plumed  a  flight  beyond  the  sky. 
In  solitude,  with  bitter  tears',  the  brother  gently  laid 
The  loved  one  down  to  rest,  within  the  grave  his  hands  had 

made, 

And  then,  in  loneliness  of  soul,  his  footsteps  turned  away 
To  seek  the  home  where   prayer  arose  for   those  who  went 

astray. 
Now  rests  he  in  the  lonely  wild,  where  none  will  o'er  him 

weep, 
But  mournful  winds  sigh  round  his  tomb,  and  stars  a  night 

watch  keep. 

Oh,  rest  thee,  spirit!  safely  moored  within  the  haven  blest! 
Where  dreams   of  pride,  of  power  and  gold,  no  more  shall 
lure  thv  breast. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  321 

Though  angel  voices  wooed  thee  hence,  in  all  life's  strength 

and  bloom ; 
Though  human  love  shall  never  bring  its  off'ring  to  thy 

tomb  ! 
Though  death  hath  made  thy  lowly  bed  far  from  the  home 

of  love, 

Thou  rovest  now  the  golden  streets  of  Paradise  above — 
Thy  wealth  is  immortality — a  crown  of  glory  bright  ; 
A  shining  harp — a  tearless  home,  in  realms  of  fadeless  light ! 


WHITE  ROSES. 

When  moonlight's  golden  spell  was  thrown. 

O'er  village  spire  and  waving  pine, 
One  pale,  sweet  face  beside  me  shone ; 

One  gentle  hand  was  clasped  in  mine. 
June's  roses,  pure  as  drifting  snow, 

O'er-crowned  the  hedge- we  leant  beside; 
I  spoke  of  joys  we  'd  one  day  know, 

When  they  should  crown  my  own — a  bride. 

When,  'neath  the  roof  of  yonder  tower, 

Our  lips  should  breathe  the  promise  o'er, 
Beside  the  shrine,  whose  holy  power 

Should  blend  our  lives  forever  more. 
Her  mournful  eyes  were  raised  to  mine ; 

Through  trembling  tears  their  glances  shone  ; 
"Nay,  nay,"  she  said,  "by  yonder  pine 

See'st  thou  the  gleaming  burial  stone  ? 

"  Before  another  June  shall  come, 
With  moonlit  hour,  and  rose's  glow, 


322  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

My  home  will  be  the  silent  tomb, 
My  rest  the  grave,  so  cold  and  low! 

This  heart  for  thee  no  more  will  beat, 
Oh,  friend,  more  dear  than  all  beside  ! 

Perchance  the  roses  may  be  sweet — 

They  '11  deck  the  bier  and  not  the  bride." 

"  Oh,  speak  not  thus  ! "  I  cried  in  grief, 

"The  strength  of  love  shall  bind  thee  here; 
A  life  so  pure,  should  not  be  brief!  " 

Yet  o'er  me  swept  a  darkening  fear; 
And  then  I  knew  how  large  a  part 

Of  life  was  this  o'ermastering  love. 
I  clasped  her  to  my  beating  heart, 

And  prayed  that  God  would  shield  my  dove. 


The  fading  year  left  in  its  train 

The  radiant  hours  of  mirth  and  song ; 
When  echoing  bells,  with  glad  acclaim, 

The  New  Year's  greeting  lay  prolong. 
While  hearts  were  gay  at  festive  time, 

Death's  shadow  o'er  my  path  was  thrown, 
One  cold,  cold  hand  was  laid  in  mine, 

One  voice  was  breathing  love's  last  tone. 

The  joy-bells  ceased — to  sound  a  knell 
O'er  one  whose  earthly  smile  had  fled, 

Upon  whose  bosom  lay  the  spell 

That  gathers  o'er  the  slumbering  dead. 

Amid  the  golden,  gleaming  hair, 
Borne  pure  white  wintry  buds  I  laid, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  323 

And  longed  the  couch  of  rest  to  share, 
Kind  hands  amid  the  snows  had  made. 

The  vines  are  climbing  o'er  the  wall ; 

The  winds  of  June  are  murmuring  low ; 
The  radiant  moonbeams  softly  fall, 

As  in  the  eves  of  long  ago. 
Beside  the  moss-grown  church  I  stand — 

The  pine  tree's  shadow  o'er  me  thrown, 
Where  snowy  roses  lightly  bend 

Above  the  sculptured  burial  stone. 

My  early  lost !  my  angel  bride  ! 

Though  years  have  in  their  silence  fled, 
With  solemn  joy  I  stand  beside 

The  mound  that  keeps  my  sainted  dead. 
The  silver  lies  upon  my  hair — 

Life's  hour  is  brief,  I  know — and  soon 
Our  souls  the  bond  of  joy  shall  wear 

Where  Eden  's  deathless  roses  bloom. 


S.  B.  ROCKWELL, 

OF  MIDDLEBURY. 

FREEDOM  FOR  POLAND. 

Fair  Freedom  !  may  we  hold  thee  dear 
In  lands  remote,  beyond  the  sea ; 
Thy  children,  in  our  stricken  land, 
Proclaim  their  sympathies  for  thee  ; 


324  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Our  thoughts,  despite  of  time  and  place, 
Go  forth  in  sorrow  for  the  race 
Who  fight  for  Freedom's  rising  star, 
Bedimmed  by  Russia's  haughty  Czar. 

Brave  land !  we  share  thy  wrongs  with  thee — 

Thy  griefs  are  ours — thy  clouds  our  gloom ; 

And  memory,  like  a  mourner  there, 

Weeps  o'er  thy  holy  patriot  tomb. 

The  deeds  of  Kosciusko  tell 

How  Freedom  rallied  when  he  fell ; 

And  in  his  dying  breath  of  prayer 

Rung  out  the  knell  of  slavery  there. 

Ho,  gallant  ones  !  with  iron  wills, 

Who  spurn  enslavement  to  the  Czar, 

Stand  forth  and  claim  your  birth-right  true — 

You  share  our  sympathies  afar : 

To-day  Columbia  in  her  tears, 

Stands  pledged  to  thee  in  future  years, 

And  gives  to  thine  her  generous  cares, 

Embalmed  in  friendship's  fervent  prayers. 


COMPENSATION— A  SONNET. 

The  day  had  sunk  to  peaceful  rest, 
The  hills  embalmed  in  snow, 

Fair  Venus  twinkled  in  her  sheen, 
The  crescent  queen  hung  low  ; 

The  winds  were  cradled  in  repose ; 
The  frost-king  bore  his  sway  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  325 

The  stars  stood  out  upon  the  sky ; 
Bright  shone  the  milky  way. 

The  air  was  sharp  and  chill,  without, 

The  hearth-fires  glowed,  within; 
No  lack  of  cheer  in  all  the  town, 

In  palace,  cot  or  inn. 
At  length  a  tap  upon  the  door 

Aroused  a  sleeping  swain, 
Who,  startled  from  his  half-fledged  dreams, 

Resumed  his  task  again. 

A  figure,  wan,  and  strangely  thin, 

Whose  cheeks  were  farrowed  o'er 
With  grief  and  sorrow,  age  and  care, 

Stood  shivering  at  his  door : 
His  locks  were  white  as  virgin  snow, 

His  garments  soiled  and  worn, 
His  bended  form  and  piping  voice 

Bespoke  the  man  forlorn. 

He  rested  on  a  friendly  cane, 

And  tottered  as  he  said — 
"  A  crust,  a  lodging  for  the  night — 

Your  floor  may  be  my  bed." 
"Once  I  had  gold,"  continued  he, 

"A  home  and  children  dear — 
My  gold  took  wings,  my  children  died, 

No  friend  to  drop  a  tear." 

"  Ah,  you  must  be  forlorn,  indeed," 

Replied  his  kindly  host, 
"No  home,  no  kin,  no  gold,  alas  ! 

No  luxuries  to  boast. 


326  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

In  vain  to  you  the  spring  returns, 

In  vain  the  hollies  bloom ; 
No  friend  to  share  your  load  of  ills, 

That  drags  you  to  the  tomb." 

"  Nay,  quoth  the  aged  man  of  cares, 

This  truth  is  plainly  clear, 
The  sum  of  human  happiness 

Is  nearly  equal  here ; 
More  equal,  far,  as  I  conceive, 

Than  blind  man  estimates — 
'T  is  thus  that  Heaven  is  just  to  all, 

And  losses  compensates  ! 

"  While  you  have  gold,  and  I  have  none, 

While  you  have  home  and  cheer, 
And  corn  and  fruits  and  garners  full, 

That  reach  around  the  year ; 
Sore  cares  have  you — none  such  have  I — 

And  possibly  beside, 
Kebellious  sons  and  haughty  heirs — 

Perhaps  a  prudish  bride. 

"  While  you  are  plagued  by  flood  or  fire, 

Your  ships  o'erthrown  at  sea, 
This  compensation  I  enjoy — 

A  gracious  poverty. 
You  dream,  of  nights,  of  pad  and  thieves — 

Your  losses  deep  deplore, 
This  compensation  blesseth  me — 

No  «;old  have  I  in  store. 


o 


Your  stocks  are  down — they  yield  no  hoard- 
Your  tenants  fail  to  pay ; 


GBEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  327 

While  my  worn  wallet  counts  alike 

In  blustering  March  or  May. 
Confined  at  home  by  carking  cares, 

The  world  you  seldom  see, 
While  I  a  liberty  enjoy — • 

UNQUALIFIED  and  FREE. 

"Perhaps  you  lack  a  peace  that  flows 

From  sense  of  sins  forgiven ; 
While  I  Ve  a  golden  trust  that  claims 

A  title-deed  to  Heaven; 
A  treasure  fraught  with  glorious  hope, 

And  Immortality — 
A  compensation  for  life's  woes ; 

A  constant  joy  to  me." 


THE  QUAKER  VOLUNTEER. 

His  day's  work  done — a  Quaker  sat 

Before  a  blazing,  cheerful  fire — 
A  pretty  woman  by  his  side ; 

What  more  could  mortal  man  desire  ? 
His  supper  eaten — pets  in  bed, 

His  table  well  with  books  supplied ; 
No  regal  prince  more  blest  than  he, 

In  all  the  noisy  world  beside. 

Life,  with  his  spouse,  was  sunny  morn, 
The  hours  sped  gaily,  sweetly  past  ; 

Each  day  with  her  was  crowned  with  bliss, 
No  cloud  his  tranquil  sky  o'ercast  : 

For  her  he  lived — 0,  gallant  thought — 


328  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  her  beat  strong  his  manly  breast  ; 
How  could  he  leave  her  for  the  wars  ? 
The  cruel  thought  he  half  suppressed. 

Despite  of  creeds,  despite  of  rules, 

His  spirit  yearned  to  share  the  strife — 
To  grapple  with  the  haughty  foe 

He  asked  permission  of  his  wife. 
His  soul  was  kindled  to  a  flame ; 

Nor  home,  nor  spouse  could  brook  his  zeal ; 
"  Amy,  thee  wilt — thee  wilt  consent 

That  I  defend  my  country's  weal." 

"  Nathan,  my  dear,  thee  canst  but  know, 

To  thy  sweet  will  my  own  I  bow ; 
To  '  love,  and  cherish,  and  obey,' 

I  pledged  thee  in  my  marriage-vow. 
'T  is  hard  to  tear  thee  from  my  love  ; 

'T  is  hard  to  willingly  comply  5 
'T  is  hard  to  share  our  home  alone, 

But  harder,  Nathan,  to  deny." 

The  Quaker  mused — his  heart  was  stirred  ; 

He  watched  the  glowing,  blazing  fire — 
Emblem  of  inward  flames  aglow — 

Which  every  moment  mounted  higher  : 
"  Amy,"  said  he,  "  I  can  n't  abide 

The  logic  of  our  Quaker  schools ;" 
And,  list'ning  to  the  voice  within, 

He  doffed,  for  once,  his  Quaker  rules. 

Next  day  he  donned  the  martial  suit, 

And  mounted  on  his  charging  steed ; 
He  bent  and  kissed  a  sweet  adieu, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  329 

While  she  a  homily  did  read — 
"  Nathan,  my  dear,  thee  wilt  take  care, 

And  ne'er  return  to  wound  my  pride 
By  coming  home,  'surcharged  with  lead 

Received,  alas  !  in  thy  back-side. 

"  Amy,"  said  Nathan,  as  he  placed 

Upon  her  cheek  the  parting  kiss, 
"  Thee  ne'er  shalt  hear  of  him  you  love 

A  deed,  so  cowardly  as  this." 
Farewells  and  love  the  pair  exchanged, 

And  prayed  to  meet  another  day  ; 
Then  dashed  the  soldier,  out  of  sight 

Of  wife  and  home,  to  join  the  fray. 


When  Freedom's  gallant  sons  pour  out 

Their  loyal  blood,  in  gory  pools, 
Let  Quakers  join  to  strike  a  blow, 

Despite  their  training,  and  their  schools, 
Henceforth,  in  history's  golden  urn, 

Shall  stand  recorded — as  their  due — 
How  Quakers  fought  for  human  rights, 

In  eighteen  hundred  sixty  two  ! 


APOSTROPHE  TO  COLONEL  E.  D.  BAKER. 

Thy  mission  is  o'er — life's  battles  are  ended — 
A  nation  now  mourns  thee  in  sadness  and  grief: 

The  cause  which  thou  loved  and  bravely  defended, 
Is  'reft  of  a  gallant  and  patriot  chief; 


330  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  the  tongue,  that  so  warmly  plead  for  the  slave, 
Lies  mate  in  the  cell  of  its  "  lone  mountain  grave." 

Strong  as  a  lion,  as  swift  as  an  eagle, 

As  dauntless  as  Caesar  of  old  ; 
True  to  thy  trust  as  the  mystical  needle, 

Unmoved  or  unbought  by  bludgeons  or  gold; 
On  the  field,  in  the  forum,  at  whatever  post, 
Thy  skill  was  a  match  for  a  treacherous  host. 

When  the  dragon  of  treason  strode  from  his  lair, 
Mut'ring  curses  of  vengeance,  my  country,  on  thee, 

Thy  voice  rose  aloft  on  the  tremulous  air, 
Inviting — inspiring  the  hearts  of  the  free 

To  come  to  the  rescue,  like  Briton  or  Gaul, 

And  drive  the  base  monster  back  to  the  wall. 

Thy  clarion  voice  and  silver  tipt  tongue 

Stirred  city,  and  town,  and  mountain,  and  glen — 

Moved  Senates  and  States,  while  breathless  they  hung 
On  thy  lips,  as  one  of  the  greatest  of  men ; 

The  tribute  be  thine,  of  a  nation  in  tears, 

Unceasing — increasing  in  measure  of  years. 

When  courage  was  blanched,  and  cowering  shame 
Bound  thousands  in  shackles  of  menacing  fear- 
When  each  sought  to  find,  in  the  other,  some  blame, 

As  war  shook  his  locks,  all  gory  and  drear- 
While  all  were  appalled  and  standing  aghast, 
Thy  words  cheered  the  hosts  as  they  rode  on  the  blast — 

As  the  gathering  war  clouds  rose  lurid  and  dun, 
Threat'ning  ruin  and  death  to  thine  and  to  thee-— 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  331 

When  fear  stalk'd  a  spectre  in  every  home, 

From  the  Lakes  to  the  Gulf,  from  mountain  to  sea — • 
Thou  did'st  fling  to  the  breeze  thy  banner  unfurled, 
Defiant  of  crime,  though  in  arms  by  a  world ! 

When  foul  handed  treason,  defiant  and  bold, 

Clutched  fiercely  the  altars  of  Freedom  and  Law — 

Stole  arsenals  and  forts,  munitions  and  gold, 
In  order  to  cloy  his  ravenous  maw  ; 

Not  counting  life  dear,  but  rejecting  the  lie, 

Thou  rushed  to  the  conflict,  to  conquer  or  die ! 

'Tis  well  said  by  one,  that  'tis  not  all  of  life 

To  live — though  one  lives  his  three  score  and  ten — 

That  life  is  the  longest,  when  leagued  in  the  strife 
Which  strikes  down  the  blackest  and  basest  of  men. 

Though  thou  fell  in  thy  prime,  bereft  of  thy  years, 

We  '11  count  thy  life  long,  and  embalm  it  in  tears. 

As  Langdon,  and  Lawrence,  and  Warren  of  yore, 
Still  live  in  their  deeds,  persuasive,  sublime, 

Inspiring  true  valor,  as  never  before — 

An  offering  to  freedom,  in  all  coming  time ; 

So  with  thee  shall  it  prove — Lo  !  now  doth  appear, 

Though  dead,  yet  thou  speakest — though  gone,  thou  art  here  ! 

Let  the  low  moaning  winds  chant  thy  funeral  dirge, 
And  the  sea,  with  its  surf,  chime  thy  requiem  too ; 

Let  thy  name  live  in  song  to  time's  fartherest  verge, 
And  thy  deeds  and  thy  fame  be  mirrored  to  view 

As  an  orator,  statesman,  hero— and  then 

As  a  friend  to  the  poor — crown  jewel  of  men. 


332  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  REAPER. 

Yon  moves  a  Reaper,  both  merry  and  blithe— 
And  all  who  may  stand  in  the  swing  of  his  scythe 
Must  yield  to  his  stroke ;  what  matters  to  him 
Whether  youthful  and  strong,  or  haggard  and  grim  ? 

The  number  that  fall  by  his  sickle,  each  day, 
Is  one  every  second,  cut  down  on  the  way ; 
'T  is  vain  to  dispute  the  Reaper's  domain , 
Or  challenge  his  right  to  gather  the  grain. 

How  vain  the  attempt  to  parry  his  blows  ! 
He  gathers  his  sheaves  wherever  he  goes ; 
He  garners  the  young,  he  reaps  down  the  old, 
For  he  halts  not,  nor  sleeps— the  Reaper  bold. 

Insane  is  the  man — intolerant  and  rude, 
Who  defies  the  strong  Reaper  his  home  to  intrude  ; 
For  his  weapons  are  keen,  all  sharp  for  the  fray, 
And  his  Argus  eyes  sleep  not  by  night  nor  by  day. 

The  ends  of  the  earth,  only,  bound  his  domain; 
He  garners  his  sheaves  from  all  kinds  of  grain; 
The  prince  and  the  monarch,  the  peasant  and  king, 
Are  subject,  alike,  to  his  merciless  swing. 

Behind  covert  and  screen  stalks  this  Reaper  of  old, 
Unbribed  and  unbought  by  beauty  or  gold; 
Firm  is  his  mandate,  and  stern  his  decrees, 
Intent  upon  reaping  his  harvest  of  sheaves. 

Though  the  Reaper  may  deal  with  a  pitiless  hand, 
And  carry  his  conquest  through  every  land— 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  333 

Though  he  scatter  his  sheaves,  broadcast,  o'er  the  plain, 
In  Christ  they  may  live  and  flourish  again. 


TO  A  TEAR. 

What  is  thy  mission,  so  urgently  press'd, 

Oh,  tear  !  sent  forth  by  that  throbbing  breast  ? 

Dost  thou  come  to  adorn  that  angel  face, 

As  the  dew-drop  comes,  the  morn  to  grace  ? 

Or  art  thou  seeking  to  afford  relief 

To  a  heart  that's  surging  with  keenest  grief? 

Hast  thou  tales  to  tell  to  the  aching  heart — 
Some  sorrowful  news  of  grief  to  impart  ? 
Dost  thou  tell  of  loved  ones  snatched  away, 
Or,  some  sorrowful  scene  of  yesterday ; 
What  griefs,  what  sorrows,  what  sore  unrest, 
In  the  sombre  depths  of  that  silent  breast  ? 

It  were  vain  to  ask,  as  thou  seemest  deaf, 
Of  losses  or  sorrows,  of  pain  or  grief ; 
It  were  vain  to  seek,  in  thy  pearly  face, 
Some  tale  of  the  sorrowful  past  to  trace  ; 
Thou  art  rising  high,  thou  art  gushing  free — 
How  vain  are  the  questions  we  ask  of  thee. 

'T  is  human  to  weep;   't  is  noble,  divine — 
A  face  that  is  tearless — 0,  never  be  mine  ; 
My  tears  let  them  flow  from  their  briny  bed, 
And  water  the  graves  of  my  kindred,  dead ; 
For  the  land  that  I  seek  is  a  tearless  shore, 
And  all  who  reach  it  shall  weep  no  more. 


334  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

MRS.  L.  M.  BOBBINS, 

OF  DERBY  CENTER. 

Mrs.  Bobbins  has  written  frequently  under  the  signature  of  "  Nora  North. 


A  LETTER. 

Did  you  call  me,  darling  Rosa  ? 

I  thought  I  heard  your  voice, 
And  its  echo,  bounding  towards  me 

Makes  my  loving  heart  rejoice. 
It  said,  "  Come  home,  dear  auntie, 

For  I  miss  your  cheery  smile, 
And  I  can't  be  good  without  you, 

Though  I  try  to,  all  the  while." 
Well,  I  'm  coming  soon,  at  longest; 

But  I  'm  rusticating  fast, 
In  this  quiet  little  valley, 

Where  I  safe  arrived,  at  last. 
All  I  lack  is  your  dear  presence — 

For  I  have  no  ghostly  fears : 
Here  all  nature  smiles  with  gladness, 

And  the  shade  trees  drop  sweet  tears ; 
And  were  my  coffers  full  enough 

Of  gold  and  precious  stone, 
I  'd  lay  them  at  the  owner's  feet, 

And  call  this  spot  my  own  : 
And  here,  in  this  sweet  quietude, 

Away  from  noise  and  strife, 
I  'd  read,  and  write,  and  meditate, 

Nor  ask  a  happier  life. 
The  scenery  is  delightful 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  335 

Along  the  level  street — 
While,  farther  back,  "  Lake  Lovely" 

Greets  the  eye — a  placid  sheet 
Of  water;  lying  lovingly, 

Just  at  yon  graveyard's  base ; 
In  mood  reflective  and  serene, 

With  calm,  unruffled  face. 
There  rest  in  peaceful  slumber 

Our  loved  ones  "  gone  before  ;  " 
And  I  ofttimes  catch  a  whisper 

Wafted  from  their  "  shining  shore," 
Saying,  "  Oft  we  come  to  greet  you — 

For  we  live  and  love  you  still ; 
And  we  beg  you  give  us  welcome — 

'T  will  your  souls  with  gladness  fill. 
'T  is  "  the  day  of  sacred  quiet" 

Such,  as  'mid  our  city's  din, 
I  seldom  find,  at  home,  dear, 

So  near  a  city  inn. 
I  'm  not  at  church — for  reason 

Best  known  to  my  own  self; 
So,  I  surely  shan't  be  posted 

On  news  from  fashion's  shelf, 
No,  I  shan't  learn  till  to-morrow 

Which  hat  Katilda  wore — 
Nor  whether  Debby's  bonnet 

Was  tied  right  side  before — 
Nor  whether  Miss  Stubbs'  mantle. 

So  stylish,  new  and  gay, 
W^as  made — or  came  from  Boston 

By  express — the  other  day ; 
Nor  whether  what  a  Parson  said, 

(Which  no  one  can  forget,) 


336  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Is  true  ;  that  "  Miller  was  a  fool" 

Because  this  earth  stands  yet ; 
And  then,  at  intermission,  dear, 

While  all  pass  out,  so  staid, 
I  shall  fail  to  hear  it  mentioned 

How  much  sugar  Jack  has  made  ; 
And  how  much  sap  is  wasting — 

And  how  heathenish  it  is 
To  gather  sap  on  Sunday : 

(  By  some  solemncliolly  phiz.) 
Nor  how  much  "  Uncle  Moneylove" 

Has  got  for  his  black  colt : 
Nor  how  much  that  nice  sleigh  cost, 

Pat  bought  of  Mister  Holt. 
All  this — and  more  intelligence 

I  'm  losing  dear,  to-day, 
By  resting  in  my  easy  chair, 

While  thus  from  church  I  stay. 
But  I  can  wait  with  patience — 

For  soon  the  news  will  spread; 
And  I  '11  sit  and  read  of  One  who  "  had 

Not  where  to  lay  His  head," 
How,  when  the  Synagogues  were  full 

Of  worshipers,  as  now, 
He  walked  abroad,  healing  the  sick, 

With  sweat  iipon  his  brow  5 
Allowing  e'en  His  followers 

To  pluck  the  ears  of  corn  ; 
Calling  those — "  Whited  sepulchers," 

Who  treated  Him  with  scorn  : 
And  wept,  as  o'er  Jerusalem 

He  gazed,  and  saw  how  few 
True  worshipers  of  God  were  there 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  337 

To  greet  His  heavenly  view. 
Alas!  alas!  how  very  far 

All  fail  to  imitate 
The  precepts  and  example 

Of  the  Perfect  One  and  Great, 
Who  draweth  very  near  to  all 

Who  seek  His  guiding  hand. 
At  church,  at  home,  or  in  the  fields, 

Or  with  a  "heathen  band." 
The  heart — the  motive  of  our  acts — 

From  Him  is  not  concealed  ; 
And  in  the  bright,  eternal  spheres, 

All — all  will  be  revealed. 


A  LETTER 

To  Miss  ROSA  L. ,  MARCH  30, 1869. 

Yes,  I  '11  write  to  you  often,  Dear  Rosa, 

And  tell  you  the  news  of  the  day, 
At  your  home,  up  among  the  Green  Mountains, 

While  you  in  the  sunny  South  stay ; 
For  I  know,  'mid  your  joys  and  your  pleasures, 

There  will  come  to  you  longings  for  home, 
And,  weary  of  splendid  surroundings, 

You  will  watch  for  my  letters  to  come. 
I  suspect,  by  the  tone  of  yours,  weekly, 

That  time  is  approaching  full  fast; 
And  now  I  will  answer  some  questions, 

Contained  and  desired  in  your  last. 

— I  '11  post  you  on  facts  and  on  fancies — 

Such  as  births,  deaths  and  weddings,  to  be  ; 


338  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  mixed  with  the  comical  matters, 

Now  and  then  tell  what  happens  to  me — 
Such  as  this,  for  example  :  I  've  mittened 

The  lover  I  had  when  yon  left, 
Because — he  loved  drink  that  is  stronger 

Than  that  from  the  rock  Moses  cleft. 
It  cost  me  a  struggle  and  heartache 

I  '11  never — no,  never  forget  ; 
But  the  step,  which  was  prompted  hy  duty, 

I  ne'er  shall  have  cause  to  regret. 
A  long  year  has  passed — and  the  wine-cup 

He  courts  and  loves  better  than  me ; 
And,  to-day  I  have  heard,  he  leaves  "Mono," 

To  sail  o'er  the  "deep  heaving  sea," 
To  squander  his  fortune,  in  roaming 

Old  Europe's  famed  cities  to  see; 
And  drink,  to  his  fill,  of  the  grape-juice; 

Perhaps,  now  and  then  think  of  me. 

Well — I  'm  sure  I  shan't  enter  a  convent, 

Nor  weep  till  my  vision  is  dim  ; 
But  there  's  one  thing  I  '11  do,  while  I  tarry — 

I  '11  never  cease  praying  for  him; 
That  his  soul,  which  was  once  pure  and  noble, 

With  talents  surpassingly  bright, 
May  be  snatched  from  the  grasp  of  "  The  Demon," 

To  labor  for  Truth  and  for  Eight. 
I  'm  still  at  my  post,  as  you  left  me ; 

/  love  it,  and  wish  not  for  change — 
The  Father  of  blessings  will  guide  me 

Through  time's  short  meandering  range. 
Then  the  whys  and  the  wherefores,  now  hidden, 

Will  all  be  so  clearly  revealed, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  339 

I  shall  revel  in  gladness,  forever, 

For  blessings  now  darkly  concealed. 
I  grieve  next  to  tell  you,  with  frankness, 

"  The  Demon"  still  lingers  about, 
With  aliases  "  cordial"  or  "  syrup," 

Or,  "  Genuine  German  Brown  Stout." 
And  young  men  still  visit  the  places 

Where  the  "venomous  serpent  lies  hid; 
While  the  "showmen"  stand  ready  to  serve  them, 

By  raising  the  poisonous  lid. 
Good  Templars  are  striving  to  save  them 

With  a  will  that  is  cheering  to  see ; 
May  Heaven  still  smile  on  their  efforts, 

Till  all  from  "  The  Demon  "  are  free. 

I  can  not — I  will  not  write  gossip — 

This  page  is  too  pure  and  too  white 
To  be  stained  with  it ;  though  it  is  flying 

From  Monday  to  Saturday  night. 
On  Sabbath,  a  part  go  to  meeting, 

While  some  remain,  quiet,  at  home ; 
A  query — which  serves  most  his  Maker, 

And  prays  for  His  kingdom  to  come  ? 
But  no  matter — what  's  meat  for  one  brother 

May  poisonous  prove  to  his  friend; 
Our  duties  lead  not  in  one  channel, 

Though  all  in  one  motive  may  blend. 
An  old  fashioned  winter  of  snow  storms, 

And  changes,  too  frequent  to  name, 
Have  kept  our  thermometers  busy 

Enacting  the  high  and  low  game. 
But  in  spite  of  bleak  winds  and  foul  weather, 

Our  sports  have  not  waned  in  the  least; 


340  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

But  instead,  as  I  've  oft  heard  repeated, 
Amusements  have  greatly  increased 

In  this  old,  quiet  village  of  "  Mono," 

Since  sixty-nine  dawned  with  good  cheer ; 

Ajid  a  mighty  mite-gathering,  weekly, 
Makes  country  sports  lively  up  here. 

Last  and  best  for  the  cheer  of  all  ages — 

O 

From  one  year  to  seventy-five, 
The  boys  formed  a  "  Club  "  called  "  Dramatic," 

And  the  hall  seemed  a  perfect  bee-hive. 
Five  evenings  they  played  to  amuse  us — 

The  girls  acting  well,  each,  their  play — 
And  the  audience  seemed  quite  delighted, 

And  hope  at  some  fortunate  day, 
They  '11  again  try  their  skill  at  "  Dramatics," 

And  help  us  drive  dull  care  away. 
Now,  the  "  stars  "  shine  so  brightly  about  us, 

The  "  Moon  "  is  not  needed  at  all. 
Come  home  !  darling  Rose — I  can  '£  write  it — 

Come  home  !  e'er  the  summer  leaves  fall. 
Farewell,  Rosa  dear,  and  write  often, 

And  tell  me,  as  ever  of  yore, 
Of  your  loves,  and  your  hopes,  and  your  conflicts. 

Good  night ! — some  one  raps  at  my  door. 

"NoRA  NORTH." 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  341 


TO  "NORA  NORTH." 

The  author  of  the  following  is  unknown.  The  foregoing  letter  was  printed  in  the 
Newport  Express,  and  the  following  poem  was  sent  to  the  same  paper  in  reply 
to  it. 

I  see  that,  in  your  last  effusion, 

You  make  quite  a  neat  allusion 

To  your  lover.     You  say  you  gave  him  up. 

Because  he  loved  the  tempting  cup. 

Now,  dear  "  Nora,"  do  you  really  think 
From  such  a  "duty  you  ought  to  shrink  ? 
Was  it  true,  and  well,  and  good, 
To  leave  him  in  the  downward  road  ? 

I  know  that  caution  says  "  Beware  !  " 
Prudence  knows  the  serpent  's  lingering  there — 
But,  Oh,  a  Nora,"  what  nobler  lot  in  life, 
Than  to  help  him  in  its  trials  and  its  strife  ? 

Forgive  me,  sweet  singer  of  the  North, 

Most  truly  I  esteem  thy  noble  worth ; 

Be  always  as  true,  as  noble  as  now, 

And  unfading  laurels  will  wreathe  thy  brow. 

As  months  and  years  will   rapidly  roll — 
Remember,  "  He  satisfieth  the  longing  soul." 
Let  aspirations  from  that  fount  be  drawn, 
Then  longer,  and  better,  and  sweeter  thy  song. 

RUTH. 
Fifth  Avenue,  April  10,  1869. 


342  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


A  LETTER  TO  "RUTH." 

And  you  have  lately  called  me,  Ruth ; 

I  heard  your  questioning  voice, 
Have  looked  your  queries  in  the  face, 

But  can't  regret  my  choice 
To  walk  in  single  loneliness, 

How'er  my  path  be  spread — 
With  flowers,  or  thorns,  or  poverty, 

Rather  than  ever  wed 
With  one  of  God's  own  imagery, 

Who  loves  the  tempting  bowl, 
Or  will  not  manfully  exert 

His  influence  to  control 
The  curse — the  sin — the  shame — the  scourge 

That  steeps  our  land  in  woe ; 
Has  crushed  the  hopes  of  thousands,  who 

Have  perished  long  ago ; 
Made  brutes  of  men,  who  might  have  stood 

Within  our  "  Halls  of  State ;" 
E'en  now  its  curse  is  resting  there, 

Among  the  elected  great. 
You  know  it,  Ruth — it  needeth  not 

My  pencil  to  portray 
The  ravages  that  rum  has  made— 
Is  making  every  day. 
You  know,  too,  where  the  sin  most  lies ; 

Dark  at  the  vender's  door  ; 
'Till  God  forgive  him,  man  ought  not ; 

His  ill-got  gains,  how  poor  ! 
If  you  will  meet  me,  some  fair  eve, 

Upon  the  village  green, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  343 

I'll  give  you  one  sad  history, 

My  pitying  eyes  have  seen ; 
Tell  you  how  one  fond,  hopeful  heart 

A  moderate  drinker  wed ; 
He  occupies  a  convict's  cell — 

She  sleeps  among  the  dead. 
Two  orphaned  children  blush  with  shame 

Whene'er  his  name  is  spoken, 
And  weep  above  a  mother's  grave, 

Knowing  her  heart  was  broken ; 
Then,  kneeling  on  her  grassy  mound, 

With  weeping  eyes,  to  Heaven 
They  pray  the  prayer  she  bade  them  pray — 

< '  That  father  be  forgiven." 
This  is  but  one  of  thousands  like ; 

Then  tell  me,  Ruth,  in  candor, 
If  I,  no  nobler  work  could  do — 

Nothing  that's  wiser — grander — 
Than  give  my  hand  to  help  through  time, 

One  who,  in  spite  of  reason, 
Yields  himself  up  a  sacrifice 

To  soul-destroying  treason. 
No  !  sooner  far  than  wed  a  man 

Who  sips  at  Bacchus'  fountains, 
I  '11  teach  the  blessed  children,  here 

Among  these  verdant  mountains, 
To  shun  the  evil — love  the  good — 

Drink  only  crystal  waters ; 
Make  active  "  Sons  of  Temperance," 

And  noble  Temperance  Daughters. 

********* 
I  Ve  nothing  to  forgive  you,  Ruth ; 


344  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Your  tribute  I  will  cherish 
As  coming  from  a  heart  which  would 

That  none  by  rum  should  perish. 
Your  duty  may  (for  aught  I  know,) 

Be  for  one  soul  to  labor ; 
God  bless  you,  Ruth — lighten  your  way 

I  '11  be  your  helping  neighbor. 
I  '11  strive  to  lift  the  fallen  up — 

To  cheer  the  weary  hearted  — 
Scatter,  broadcast,  a  few  small  seeds, 

To  bloom  when  I  Ve  departed. 
If  sown  in  faith,  the  dews  of  Heaven 

Will  cause  them  to  mature — 
And  angel  fingers  pluck  the  weeds, 

And  make  the  blossoms  pure. 
Nor  you — nor  I,  will  swell  town  votes, 

But  in  our  sphere  prove  true — 
Help  swell  the  buds  of  purity, 

Like  evening's  noiseless  dew. 
And  when  unfettered :  all  unseen — 

Unheard — but  not  unheeded, 
Commissioned  for  a  brighter  sphere, 

We  '11  labor  where  most  needed. 
Boundary,  May  18,  1869. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  345 

J.   A.    WING, 

AN  EMINENT  JURIST,  OF  MONTPELIER. 

PLYMOUTH  ROCK. 

Now  turn  your  eyes  to  Plymouth  Rock — 
See,  gathered  there,  a  little  flock. 
It  was  a  cold  December  day, 
The  Mayflower  did  at  anchor  lay, 
And  on  her  deck,  for  praise  and  prayer, 
See  men  and  matrons  gathered  there, 
Who  left  their  homes  on  England's  shore, 
And  fearless  passed  the  waters  o'er; 
In  the  New  World,  to  seek  a  home 
Where  tyrant's  foot  shall  never  come. 

In  fancy  with  them,  take  your  stand 
Upon  that  bleak  and  sterile  land — 
See  the  dark  forest  proudly  rise, 
Where  e'er  to  land  you  turn  your  eyes. 
There,  through  the  night,  the  wolf  doth  howl, 
And  there  the  bear  doth  furious  growl ; 
And  there  the  panther  wildly  springs, 
And  there  the  Indian  warwhoop  rings. 
These  men  heed  not  the  winds  that  blow, 
They  heed  not,  now,  the  falling  snow, 
But,  on  that  wild  and  friendless  shore, 
Where  winter  winds  now  ceaseless  roar, 
They  seek  a  home  where,  evermore, 
They  can  in  praise  their  God  adore. 
Before  that  small  and  fearless  band, 


346  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  pathless  forests  darkly  stand ; 
Before  these  men,  from  day  to  day, 
The  forests  wild,  pass  fast  away. 
See  dwellings  rise,  where  late  the  wood 
In  all  its  ancient  grandeur  stood, 
The  bears  and  wolves  flee  fast  away, 
And  e'en  the  Red  Man  cannot  stay. 
The  farms  are  cleared — see  cities  rise, 
With  temples  pointing  to  the  skies. 
Where,  late,  we  saw  the  birch  canoe, 
The  mills  and  fountains  meet  our  view; 
Where,  late,  the  Red  Man  chased  the  deer, 
A  thousand  lowing  herds  appear. 
The  hills,  where,  late,  the  wolves  did  keep, 
See,  now  are  white  with  flocks  of  sheep : 
And  where  the  Indian  sought  his  prey, 
The  iron  steed  now  takes  his  way  : 
And  where  the  Indian  late  held  sway, 
A  powerful  nation  dwells,  to-day. 

WThat  cleared  the  fields  and  raised  the  grain  ? 
What  built  the  cities  of  the  plain  ? 
What  leveled  down  the  mountain  side, 
And  bridged  the  rivers  swift  and  wide  ? 
The  factories  built,  the  loom  to  speed  ? 
Chained  to  the  car  the  iron  steed  ? 
Called  down  the  lightning  from  the  sky, 
And  bade  it  on  our  errands  fly  ? 
Say,  was  it  accident,  or  luck  ? 
Or,  was  it  science,  toil  and  pluck  ? 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  347 


MODERN  BELLES  AND  BEAUX. 

See  yon  beau,  so  trim  and  neat ; 

Dressed  so  slick  and  smells  so  sweet — 

Scent  of  Mask,  and  Oil  of  Rose 

Fill  the  air,  where  e'er  he  goes. 

Look  him  o'er  and  search  him  round, 

In  his  pockets  may  be  found — 

Hold  !  you  should  the  secret  keep, 

Let  those  bottles  quiet  sleep, 

Filled  with  liquor — 0,  ye  gods  ! 

Sure  to  kill  at  "  forty  rods  !" 

In  those  pockets,  deep,  they  lie, 

Not  designed  for  beauty's  eye  : 

By  their  side,  not  distant  far, 

Lies  the  fragrant,  loved  cigar, 

With  cigars  and  bottles  lay 

Cards  to  pass  the  time  away ; 

With  pistols  and  a  bowie  knife — 

Lest  mirth,  perchance,  should  end  in  strife. 

In  those  pockets'  ample  fold, 

There  are  neither  bills  nor  gold  : 

Wealth  he  squanders  not  away, 

Bread  to  b*iy,  and  debts  to  pay — 

The  little  cash  comes  always  handy 

To  fill  the  flask  with  R.  G.  Brandy. 

If  devoid  of  cash,  alas  ! 

He  is  well  supplied  with  brass; 

He  can  boast  his  rings  and  chains — 

Hair  supplies  the  place  of  brains. 

O'er  his  head  how  sleek  his  hair — 

Black  the  boots  he  deigns  to  wear. 


348  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Graceful  tied  is  his  cravat — 

Latest  fashion  is  his  hat. 

On  his  lip  the  moustache  curls — 

Sweet  he  smiles  on  all  the  girls  : 

With  what  grace  he  wields  a  fan — 

Is  not  he  a  lady's  man  ? 

When  he  walks  the  streets  in  pride, 

Honest  merit  steps  aside  ; 

Worth  and  talent  can  't  compare 

With  scent  of  musk,  and  curled  hair. 

By  him  see  yon  lovely  belle, 

Bound  as  by  a  magic  spell ; 

See  her  bosom  heave  with  pride, 

As  she  lingers  by  his  side : 

She  may  well  deserve  his  care — 

From  the  barber's  came  the  hair 

Which  doth  deck  her  lovely  head, 

And  graceful  o'er  her  shoulders  spread. 

The  rosy  cheek,  the  neck  of  snow, 

Paris  shops  on  her  bestow, 

And  those  teeth,  so  pure  and  white, 

Giving  to  the  eye  delight, 

Which  so  well  the  mouth  do  fill, 

Owe  their  charms  to  dental  skill. 

And  that  lust,  divinely  fair — 

Venus  might  be  proud  to  wear, 

When  encircled  by  his  arms — 

Owes  to  cotton  all  its  charms. 

See,  as  arm  in  arm  they  go, 

Do  n't  they  make  a  goodly  show  ? 

As  they  mingle  in  the  crowd, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  349 

None  like  them  appear  so  proud : 

I  can  hear  the  crowd  all  say 

There  are  none  so  fair  and  gay ; 

And,  as  through  the  dance  they  swim, 

She  is  just  the  match  for  him — 

Just  a  match — for  neither  one, 

A  noble  deed  has  ever  done. 

No  blessings  follow  where  they  tread, 

For  naked  clothed,  or  hungry  fed  5 

The  only  bliss  that  they  possess 

Is  sensual  pleasure,  pomp  and  dress. 


ADVICE  TO  THE  WIFE. 

The  wife,  who  would  her  husband  constant  rule, 

Should  never  tell  him  he  's  a  knave  or  fool : 

If  he  do  n't  all  her  fondest  wishes  suit, 

She  should  not,  scornful,  call  him  Turk  or  brute ; 

If  he  do  n't  silks  and  satins  instant  buy, 

She  should  not  fret,  and  scold,  and  madly  cry 

Like  children,  spoiled  by  parents  kind  and  weak, 

Who  constant  cry,  denied  the  toys  they  seek. 

She  should  not  fret  and  scold,  the  livelong  day, 

Until  the  sun's  last  beam  has  passed  away ; 

And  when,  o'er  earth,  the  night  her  watch  doth  keep, 

With  curtain-lectures  lull  him  to  his  sleep. 

There  is  no  love  within  the  human  breast, 

From  year  to  year,  can  stand  so  strong  a  test; 

No  fire  will  always  burn,  unless  't  is  fed, 

And  love,  that  's  constant  scorned,  will  soon  be  dead. 

If  jars  there  are,  in  matrimonial  life, 


350  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Let  nature  guide  you  in  its  storms  and  strife ; 

If  winds  grow  fierce,  and  darkness  veils  the  sky, 

And  thunder  roars,  and  bolts  of  lightning  fly ; 

Though  fierce  the  storm,  't  will  quickly  pass  away. 

Let  the  sun  shine  without  a  mark  or  stain 

Left  by  the  storm  on  valley,  hill  or  plain. 

If  he  denies  you  dress,  or  bonnet  gay, 

Perhaps  he  has  not  cash  for  them  to  pay; 

And  you,  if  worthy  of  the  name  of  wife, 

Would  ne'er  engage  in  matrimonial  strife — 

Make  him  the  debtor's  galling  collar  wear, 

That  silks  and  jewels  you  may  proudly  share ; 

And,  while  you  sport  gay  feathers  through  the  street, 

Cause  him  to  toil,  the  great  expense  to  meet. 

But  if  he  's  able,  and  your  wants  wont  hear, 

This  secret  let  me  whisper  in  your  ear ; 

Which,  like  the  magic  word  in  eastern  tale, 

To  ope  all  places  ne'er  was  known  to  fail : 

'T  will  calm  all  strife  and  quiet  every  jar, 

Remove  all  locks  and  every  bolt  unbar, 

And  from  the  miser  draw  his  gold  away, 

And  change  the  night  of  discord  to  clear  day  : 

Be  kind  and  gentle  in  your  humble  home — 

Your  husband  meet  with  smiles,  when  he  doth  come 

From  store  and  shop,  where  he  the  weary  day, 

In  constant  toil,  the  hours  has  passed  away ; 

And  make  him  happy — never  fret  nor  scold — 

One  smile  and  kiss  will  draw  from  him  more  gold 

Than  constant  fretting,  while  the  day  is  bright, 

And  " Caudle  lectures/'  given  through  the  night.  • 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  351 


ADVICE  TO  HUSBANDS. 

Ye  husbands,  I,  to  you  will  tell 

How  you,  in  peace,  fore'er  may  dwell ; 

How  you  can  win  the  glorious  boon, 

To  make  your  life  one  honeymoon. 

When  first  you  sought  to  win  a  wife 

To  sail  with  you  the  voyage  of  life, 

You  tried,  by  every  act,  to  prove 

That  you  did  her  sincerely  love : 

Each  wish  of  hers  was  law  to  you, 

And  all  she  asked  you  loved  to  do. 

Then,  then  you  led  a  happy  life; 

And  when  the  maid  became  your  wife, 

You  should  not  call  the  courting  done, 

Although  the  maiden  you  have  won. 

Soon  as  the  silken  knot  is  tied, 

You  should  not  change  towards  your  bride : 

You  at  your  home  each  eve  should  stay, 

And  from  the  tavern  keep  away, 

And  make  home  happy  every  day. 

If  treated  with  neglect  and  scorn, 

You  '11  find  that  trouble  soon  is  born. 

You  should  not,  if  the  children  cry, 

Unto  the  store  or  grocery  fly, 

And  leave  her,  all  alone,  to  bear 

The  burden  you  ought  then  to  share, 

On  washing-days  you  should  not  fret, 

If  nicest  dinners  you  do  not  get. 

You  cannot  hope  to  happy  be 

If  you  drink  rum  when  she  's  no  tea; 

Or  smoke  till  you  are  nearly  dead, 


352  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

When  she  has  neither  meat  nor  bread. 

No  wonder,  when  she  catches  you 

Giving  to  Jennie,  Beck  or  Sue 

The  fond  embrace  that  is  her  due, 

If  clouds  grow  dark,  and  lightnings  fly, 

And  thunder  rends  the  angry  sky — 

The  winds  arise  that  hearts  appall, 

And  rain,  in  drenching  torrents,  fall. 

If  you  would  wife  and  children  bless, 

Make  home  your  place  of  happiness ; 

Forsake  the  tavern's  noise  and  din  ; 

Flee  from  each  place  of  vice  and  sin. 

The  gambler's  den  you  must  forsake, 

The  chains  of  every  siren  break — 

Cast  from  your  lips  the  flowing  bowl, 

That  wastes  your  wealth,  and  drowns  your  soul ; 

And  frugal,  temperate,  virtuous  be ; 

To  all  your  business  constant  see — 

Consult  your  wife  in  all  you  do, 

As  one  who  is  a  friend  to  you ; 

Watch  o'er  your  children,  day  by  day, 

From  virtue's  paths  they  must  not  stray ; 

Expend  for  books  an  equal  sum 

Your  neighbors  do  for  gin  and  rum; 

And  you  will,  then,  around  you  see 

A  loving,  virtuous  family  : 

Your  wealth  will  then,  each  day,  increase, 

And  you  will  always  dwell  in  peace. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  353 

INVITATION. 

FROM  THE  ALMA  MATER  OF  DARTMOUTH  COLLEGE  TO  HER  CHILDREN,  JULY,  1869. 

Come  home  to  your  Mother,  my  children  so  dear, 

I  summons  you  all,  in  July,  to  appear ; 

Come  home  my  dear  sons,  't  is  my  hundredth  birth-day, 

Let  no  one  remain  from  my  mansion  away. 

In  my  old  classic  halls,  my  tables  you  '11  find, 

Well  stored  with  rich  food  for  both  body  and  mind  ; 

Come,  gather  around  the  Old  Homestead,  once  more, 

Where  deeply  ye  drank  of  her  classical  lore. 

Though  an  hundred  long  years  your  Mother  hath  seen, 

She  's  as  gay  and  as  fair  as  a  girl  of  sixteen ; 

On  her  face  not  a  wrinkle,  or  sign  of  decay — 

Her  step  is  as  bright,  and  her  voice  is  as  gay, 

As  when,  in  her  youth,  at  her  altar  all  swore, 

None  fairer  or  nobler  the  earth  ever  bore. 

Come  home  to  your  Mother,  from  mountain  and  plain ; 

Let  Oregon  greet  here  her  brothers  from  Maine ; 

Come  home  all  my  children,  that  dwell  o'er  the  sea, 

Come  all  that  now  live,  on  my  birth-day,  to  me ; 

And  make,  with  your  presence,  the  Old  Homestead  gay, 

And  honor  your  Mother's  one  hundredth  birth-day. 

We  '11  rejoice  with  the  living — but  still  we  must  weep 

For  Brothers,  who  now  in  their  graves  are  asleep  ; 

*  For  thirty-one  years  from  the  time  of  my  birth 

All  my  sons  are  asleep  'neath  the  clods  of  the  earth : 

And  many,  each  year,  of  the  noble  and  brave, 

Are  passing  from  toil  to  find  rest  in  the  grave : 


*  Hon.  Samuel  Swift,  of  Middlebury,  who  graduated  in  18UO,  is  the  oldest  living 
graduate  of  Dartmouth  College. 


354  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Then,  come  to  your  Mother,  my  sons  widely  spread, 
To  rejoice  with  the  living  and  weep  for  the  dead. 


LINES. 

On  the  death  of  Edward  Dillingham,  Major  of  the  10th  Regiment  of  Vt.  Volun 
teers,  who  was  killed  at  the  Battle  near  Winchester,  Virginia,  while  gallaatly 
leading  his  Regiment  on  the  field. 

He  fell,  as  a  soldier  should  fall, 

At  the  head  of  his  own  gallant  band ; 

He  died  as  a  soldier  should  die, 
In  defence  of  his  own  native  land. 

He  fell  'mid  the  battle's  loud  roar, 

Where  the  Stars  and  the  Stripes  proud  did  fly, 
His  life  to  his  country  he  gave — 

"  'T  is  sweet  for  one's  country  to  die." 

He  fell  in  the  spring  time  of  life, 

His  country  from  traitors  to  save  ; 
While  the  bugle,  the  drum  and  the  fife 

Fired  the  hearts  of  the  true  and  the  brave. 

He  died  while  the  victor's  shout 

Rang  clear  on  the  mountain  air, 
While  the  foe,  in  disordered  rout, 

Were  flying  in  wildest  despair. 

Vermont  the  proud  record  shall  make, 

And  add  to  her  long  roll  of  fame ; 
With  her  Aliens,  and  Warrens  she  '11  place 

Young  Dillingham's  glorious  name. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  355 


MRS.    LAURA   A.    B.    BOYCE, 

OF  FAYSTON. 


CHANGES. 

0,  ray  heart  is  full  of  sadness, 

As  I  sit  alone,  to-night, 
Gloaming  over  memory's  pages, 

Traced  in  shadow  and  in  light. 
Backward,  now,  my  spirit  glances 
Through  the  misty  aisle  of  years — 

Years  of  sorrow  and  of  gladness, 
To  my  childhood's  joys  and  tears. 

0,  the  golden  days  of  childhood, 
When  the  days  were  bright  and  long ; 

How  the  dim  old  forest  echoed 
With  our  blithesome  laugh  and  song. 

And,  when  icy  breath  of  winter 
Set  his  seal  on  leaf  and  tree, 

Merrily,  then,  passed  the  evenings, 
Sitting  on  my  father's  knee — 

Listening  to  wild  tales  and  legends — 
Stories  of  the  long  ago, 

When  our  grandsire  sought  the  forest, 
Helped  to  lay  the  tree-kings  low. 

O,  those  nights  were  never  lonely ; 
0,  those  days  were  never  long ; 

For  our  hearts  were  full  of  gladness, 
And  our  lips  were  full  of  song. 

But  the  changes  time  hath  brought  us 
Since  the  years  of  long  ago  ; 


356  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

0,  the  changes  care  hath  wrought  us 
On  the  lip,  the  heart,  the  hrow. 

Change  on  all — 0  did  we  ever, 
In  those  days,  so  bright  and  long, 

Dream  that  care  could  press  so  heavy, 
Or  Time's  fingers  were  so  strong  ? 

Dreamed  we,  then,  that  threads  of  silver 
Soon  should  gleam  in  our  dark  hair  ? 

Or,  of  brows,  so  fresh  and  rosy, 
Written  o'er  with  thought  and  care  ? 

Nay,  we  knew  not — nay,  we  dreamed  not, 
Life  was  but  a  gala-day, 

As  hope  led  us  gaily  onward, 
Strewing  flowerets  all  the  way. 

But  the  flowers  grew  pale  and  withered, 
Ere  life's  morning  reached  its  noon, 

And  the  thorns  that  hid  beneath  them 
Pierced  and  wounded  all  too  soon. 

Soon  the  clouds  grew  black  and  heavy — 
Soon  the  storm  burst  o'er  our  way— 

Ah !  experience,  sad,  hath  taught  us 
Life  is  not  a  gala-day  ! 

0,  the  lonely  hours  of  darkness, 
O,  the  weary  nights  of  pain ; 

O,  the  bitter,  Utter  partings, 
That  the  heart  must  bear  again. 

Some  have  passed  beyond  "the  river" — 
Passed  beyond  our  yearning  sight; 

Though  we  call,  no  voice  e'er  answers 
From  that  glorious  realm  of  light. 

Some  whose  lives  are  parted  from  us, 
And  we  meet  them  here  no  more  ; 

Yet  we  know  they  're  living,  loving, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  357 

As  they  used  to  do  of  yore. 

And  our  hearts  grow  better,  stronger, 
As  we  think  of  all  God's  love  ; 

Think  how  gently  He  would  lead  us, 
Did  we  not  so  wayward  prove. 

Lead  us  still,  our  Heavenly.  Father, 
Though  by  crosses  we  must  come; 

Only  bring  us  safely,  surely 
Through  Time's  changes  to  our  home. 


THE  SOLDIER'S  LAST  DREAM. 

It  is  midnight — and  the  darkness 

Broods  above  the  tented  field, 
Like  a  somber  cloud  of  sable, 

Save  where  here  and  there  revealed, 
By  the  camp  fire's  flickering  glimmer, 

Rise  the  tents  like  sheeted  ghosts, 
And,  anon,  the  silent  sentry 

Guarding  wearily  his  post. 

Down  beside  yon  gleaming  camp  fire, 

Rests  a  weary  soldier  now  ; 
'Neath  his  head  a  knapsack  pillow, 

And  upturned  a  noble  brow, 
Shaded  by  soft  curls  of  chestnut, 

Tossing  in  the  breeze  the  while — 
As  the  fire-light  glints  his  features, 

Mark  ye  there  that  happy  smile ! 

Ah  !  he's  dreaming—sweetly  dreaming — 
Of  his  distant  northern  home, 


358  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

WTiere  fond  hearts  have  watched  and  waited 

Wearily,  for  him  to  come. 
Once  again  he  nears  the  cottage, 

Nestled  down  beneath  the  hills, 
Pausing  on  that  well-known  threshold, 

How  his  inmost  being  thrills  ! 

Rosy  lips  his  own  are  pressing, 

And  his  arms  a  burthen  hold, 
Dearer  far,  than  richest  treasure, 

That  Golconda's  mines  unfold ; 
And  he  hears  the  gentle  patter, 

Of  the  little  dimpled  feet- 
Tones  like  notes  of  richest  music, 

Dearer,  and  to  him  more  sweet. 
Soft,  white  arms  his  neck  entwining, 

Baby  kisses  meet  his  own — 
Tell  me,  on  a  scene  that  's  fairer 

Hath  the  sunlight  ever  shone  ? 

Hark  !  what  means  the  drum's  loud  beating, 

Horsemen  dashing  to  and  fro  ? 
Ah  !  they  Ve  driven  in  our  pickets ! 

Arm  ye,  quick  !  to  meet  the  foe  ! 
Up  he  springs — the  dreaming  soldier, 

And  with  bayonet  gleaming  bright, 
In  the  morning's  first  grey  glimmer, 

Hurrying  eager  to  the  fight. 

\Vhen  the  sun  rose  in  its  splendor, 

Ushering  in  another  day, 
Close  beside  a  rippling  brooklet 

Calmly,  now,  that  soldier  lay. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  359 

But  his  lip  and  cheek  are  paler, 

And  the  gory,  sodden  ground 
Drinks  the  life-blood,  slowly  ebbing 

From  that  deep  and  ghastly  wound, 

"  Nearer,  comrade  !  I  am  dying, 

And  while  I  have  strength  to  tell, 
I  would  send  a  last  fond  message 

To  the  ones  I  love  so  well : 
Scarce,  three  hours  ago,  while  dreaming, 

I  was  in  that  distant  home, 
And  sweet  loving  eyes  were  weeping 

Tears  of  joy  that  I  had  come. 

"  Vainly  will  they  watch  my  coming, 

Vainly  list  my  footstep  near — 
Ah !  one  fond  heart  will  be  broken, 

When  the  tidings  they  shall  hear : 
Bear  to  her  this  little  token, 

Tell  her  that  it  ever  lay] 
Close  beside  this  heart's  warm  beating — 

Cut  one  little  curl  away  ; 

"  For  she  used  to  love  to  twine  them, 

And  to  praise  their  glossy  hue — 
Ah !  this  little  one's  the  only 

That  shall  ever  meet  her  view. 
Tell  them  that  we  charged  them  bravely, 

That  I  fell  with  face  to  foe— 
Heaven  awaits  the  true  and  faithful, 

And  in  joyful  peace  I  go." 

Manly  tears  fell  as  they  laid  him 
In  that  lonely,  distant  grave, 


360  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Where  no  tear  of  kindred  loved  one 
Ever  more  the  turf  shall  lave. 

Yet  he  sleeps  as  calm  and  sweetly, 
Heedless  of  earth's  din  and  strife — 

He  who  yields  his  life  to  duty 
Gains  Heaven's  holier,  better  life. 


MARVIN  D.  BISBEE,  A.  B., 

OF  SPRINGFIELD — A  GRADUATE  OF  DARTMOUTH  COLLEGE,  CLASS  OF  '71. 

CLASS  ODE. 

Pensive  eyed  angel !  unfold  thy  soft  wings  ; 
Wake  our  heart's  music  from  the  quivering  strings; 
Gently  breathe  through  them  the  fragrance  of  years, 
Perfume  of  flowers,  now  crystaled  in  tears. 

Sigh,  0  ye  breezes,  and  murmur  ye  fountains, 
Swell  the  sad  dirge,  as  the  golden  cords  sever, 

Dear  as  the  purple-eyed  eve  on  the  mountains, 
Are  the  fond  mem'ries  we  cherish  forever. 

Gem-tinted  shells  we  have  found  on  the  shore, 
Silver-chimed  whispers  will  breathe  evermore; 
But  o'er  the  surges  the  white  sails  are  fair, 
Our  barks  are  restless  the  billows  to  share. 

Great  King  of  Glory  !  warm  praises  be  thine, 
Each  gleaming  censer  yet  beams  on  our  shrine, 
No  golden  chalice  with  crystalline  wave, 
Scattered  in  jewels,  has  garnished  the  grave. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  361 

Loved  ones  who  linger,  though  wild  waves  divide, 
Thoughts  of  our  pleasures  will  flash  from  the  tide  ; 
Spirit-winged  zephyrs  will  whisper  them  low, 
Breathing,  in  echoes,  of  joys  long  ago. 

Hail  thee  !  great  Future,  thou  wilderness  bare — 
Ours  be  the  mission  the  rose  to  plant  there  ; 
Dear  hands  shall  twine  them  with  laurels  of  fame, 
Crown  our  worn  brows  with  their  bright  wreathing  flame. 

Then  as  our  spirits  their  pinions  are  pluming, 

Springing,  triumphant,  within  the  bright  portal, 
Angels  will  pluck  them,  celestially  blooming — 

Twine  for  us  garlands  of  glory  immortal. 
Kimball's  Union  Academy,  1867. 


BELLS  FKOM  OVER  THE  SEA. 

O'er  the  waves  the  winds  come  playing 
Light  as  thought  from  Dreamland  straying 

Strangely  sweet  they  bear  to  me 
Far  off  bells,  in  echoes  chiming 
Like  the  muses'  voices  rhyming ; 

Joyous  bells  from  o'er  the  sea. 

Sadder,  now,  the  echoes  sighing 
Like  a  wail  of  pleasure  dying, 

Pealing  slow  and  mournfully ; 
As  the  nightly  ravens,  winging, 
Dread  their  hollow  tones  are  flinging ; 

Muffled  bells  from  o'er  the  sea. 


362  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

See  !  the  lurid  sky  is  flashing — 
Hark  !  the  steeds  of  war  are  dashing, 

Fiends  of  death  in  revelry  ; 
Wild  the  awful  death-peal  rolling, 
As  a  nation's  requiem  tolling ; 

Bells  of  war  from  o'er  the  sea. 

Lo !  a  burst  of  rapture  pealing, 
Like  the  gush  of  frenzied  feeling, 

Bursting  joyous,  wild  and  free; 
O'er  the  surging  waters  roaring 
Loud  as  clarion  notes,  come  pouring 

Victor  bells  from  o'er  the  sea. 

Now  thine  echoes  tell  of  glory — 
Noblest  deeds  of  earthly  story ; 

Sounds  of  joy  and  ecstacy  ; 
From  their  brazen  lips  are  leaping 
Notes  of  cheer  like  anthems  sweeping- 
Bells  of  peace  from  o'er  the  sea. 

Far  too  pure  for  earth,  come  pealing 
Silver  voices,  sweetly  stealing — 

Welling  from  eternity ; 
Sweet  as  songs  of  infant  lispers  — 
Seraph  voices,  angel  whispers — 

Bells  of  Heaven  from  o'er  life's  sea. 


THE  DYING  SEA-KING. 

Wild  a  nightly  storm  was  raging 
On  the  cold  Norwegian  shore, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  363 

Where  an  old  Norse  King  lay  dying — 

Dying  'mid  the  tempest  roar. 
Weak  his  brawny  limbs  were  growing ; 

Dim  his  eye  of  restless  fire  ; 
Deep  his  great,  wild  heart  was  heaving, 

Ere  the  burning  flame  expire. 
His  had  been  the  soul  of  valor, 

His  the  warrior's  fearless  might ; 
But  his  sinews  then  were  nerveless. 

And  his  locks  were  frosted  white. 
All  his  brow  was  dark  with  sadness, 

And  with  grief  he  sighed  aloud, 
For  he  longed  to  die  in  battle, 

And  to  win  a  gory  shroud. 
All  at  once  his  mind  grew  brighter, 

As  this  thought  his  being  stirred ; 
And  his  lips  shook  off  their  fetters, 

While  they  framed  his  thrilling  word : 

"  0,  thou  Universal  Father ! 

Mighty  Odin,  wise  and  brave, 
Hear,  0  hear,  the  dying  Sea-King, 

Give,  0  give,  an  honored  grave ! 
Broad  the  scars  that  bear  me  witness 

I  have  never  shunned  the  strife ; 
That  my  soul  has  known  no  master, 

That  no  fear  has  stained  my  life. 
I  have  loved  the  battle's  music, 

When  its  thunders  rose  and  fell ; 
Loved  to  hear  its  awful  echoes 

On  the  night  wind's  bosom  swell. 
I  have  wandered  mid  the  giants 

Of  the  far-off  Jotun  plain, 


364  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  I  prayed  that  death  might  meet  me 

'Mid  the  Choosers  of  the  slain — 
'Mid  the  Valkyrs,  who  should  bear  me 

Straight  to  Odin's  Heavenly  Hall ; 
Covered  o'er  with  wounds  of  honor, 

As  the  noblest  warriors  fall. 
And  I  Ve  joyed,  amid  the  billows, 

All  alone  my  bark  to  guide, 
Where  great  Hymir's  ivy  castle 

Rose  amid  the  boundless  tide. 

0  !  the  tempest's  frenzied  rapture, 
Where  the  foamy  mountains  swell; 

1  have  reveled  on  their  bosom, 

I  have  loved  them  long  and  well." 

Here  he  checked  his  fervid  accents — 

Paused  a  moment,  wrapped  in  thought — 

Then  his  eye  lit  up  with  pleasure, 
As  if  life  new  hold  had  caught. 

"  Joy  !  I  feel  my  prayer  is  answered ; 

There  is  yet  one  noble  grave, 
WTiere  the  storm  shall  knell  my  requiem — 

I  will  die  upon  the  wave. 
Rig  my  bark  !  0  faithful  vessel ; 

Spread  once  more  its  riven  sail, 
Place  me  on  its  shattered  benches — 

Cast  us  loose  before  the  gale." 

Quick  obeyed  those  trusty  Vikings — 
Soon  his  bark  was  bounding  free, 

And  within  it,  sitting  stately, 
Rose  the  Chieftain  of  the  sea. 

One  hand  grasped  the  shaking  tiller, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  365 

One  a  flaming  torch  raised  high, 
Which  he  cast  amid  the  timbers 

Whence  the  flames  rose  curling  nigh. 
Onward  sped  the  flaming  vessel, 

Like  a  phantom  tempest-born, 
With  the  lord  of  aged  valor, 

Seeking  death  with  royal  scorn. 
And  they  say  that  flaming  spirits 

Came  and  manned  the  ashen  oars, 
And  that  all  the  shapes  of  darkness 

Came  from  out  the  ebon  doors — 
That  great  Thor  upraised  his  hammer  ; 

Shook  his  flowing  locks  with  glee  ; 
Split  the  cliffs,  with  fiery  wedges, 

Cast  them  hot  within  the  sea. 
Loud  the  lightning's  hell-born  rockets 

Sent  them  coursing  through  the  air, 
Gilding  all  the  crested  billows 

With  a  blue  funereal  glare. 
But,  above  the  storm's  loud  tumult, 

Rose  the  Northmen's  runic  song  ; 
Pouring  out  their  wild,  deep  natures ; 

Swelling  upward  hoarse  and  strong. 

u  Farewell !  farewell ! 

To  the  Sea-King  brave, 
Roll  on  !  roll  on  !• 

0  ye  dark  free  wave. 
Swell  high  !  swell  high  ! 

With  your  heaving  surge  ; 
Knell  on !  knell  on  ! 

In  your  sounding  dirge. 
Fly  swift !  fly  swift ! 


366  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

O  thou  flame-wrapped  bark  ; 
Far  away  !  far  away  ! 

O'er  the  waters  dark. 
No  more  !  no  more  ! 
With  us  here  to  dwell, 

Brave  King  !  brave  king  ! 
Fare  thee  well ;  farewell." 

Long  they  lingered,  waiting,  watching, 

Till  the  bark  had  passed  from  sight ; 
Till  the  storm  had  spent  its  fury, 

And  were  fled  the  shades  of  night. 
Then,  when  all  the  tempest  voices 

Softened  .to  a  wailing  moan, 
While  the  winds  and  pines  made  music 

In  their  weird,  unearthly  tone ; 
All  these  great,  free  hearted  natures — 

Strong  and  deep  as  restless  seas — 
Woke  to  pure  and  lofty  worship, 

Earnest  prayers  their  god  to  please. 
Nothing  grieved  they  for  their  chieftain, 

For  they  knew  his  soul  had  passed 
Safe  beyond  the  raging  billows, 

And  in  pleasure  dwelt  at  last. 
But  they  prayed  to  Father  Odin — 

Prayed  to  Odin,  wise  and  brave — 
That,  if  they  fell  not  in  battle, 

They  might  die  upon  the  wave. 
That  the  storm  might  wail  their  dirges — 

That  the  night  should  be  their  pall, 
And  their  flaming  bark  should  bear  them 

Swift  to  Odin's  Heavenlv  Hall. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  367 


MISS  GRACE  N.  FARRAND, 

OF  FAIRFIELD. 

TO  A  CHKISTIAN. 

Christian,  art  them  sorely  prest  ? 
Seekest  thou  in  vain  for  rest  ? 
Go  to  Jesus — in  His  breast 
Thou  shalt  be  forever  blest. 

Is  the  cross  thou  hast  to  bear 
Heavy  made  by  doubt  and  care  ? 
Bright  shall  be  the  crown  thou  'It  wear; 
Sweet  the  rest  that  thou  shalt  share. 

Does  the  way  look  rough  before  ? 
Are  thy  poor  feet  bruised  and  sore  ? 
Trust  thy  Saviour  more  and  more ; 
Endless  is  His  healing  store. 

Does  it  grieve  thy  soul  to  prove 
Still  unfaithful — prone  to  rove  ? 
Know,  thy  Father  from  above 
Looks  on  thee  with  pitying  love. 

Dost  thou  for  the  daylight  sigh — 
Long  to  dwell  with  God  on  high  ? 
Bid  thy  spirit  cease  its  cry ; 
He  will  take  thee,  by  and  by. 

Jesus  once  was  as  thou  art ! 
Bore  the  burden  and  the  smart 


368  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

That  oppress  thy  human  heart : 
Dwelt,  for  thee,  from  God  apart. 

He  doth  pity  all  thy  woe ; 
All  thy  weakness  He  doth  know  : 
From  his  Father's  throne  brought  low, 
For  thy  sins  His  blood  did  flow. 

Christian,  why  dost  thou  repine  ? 
Christ  and  Heaven  shall  soon  be  thine  ; 
In  His  crown  a  star  thou  'It  shine ; 
Round  His  brow  a  laurel  twine. 

Trust  Him,  then,  and  never  fear ; 
To  His  bleeding  side  keep  near, 
Waiting,  still,  His  voice  to  hear. 
When  in  glory  He  '11  appear. 

Let  thy  burning  lamp  be  bright, 
Filled  with  oil  of  truth  and  right ; 
Carry  e'er  the  Shining  Light, 
For  a  guide  through  life's  dark  night. 

Christian  pilgrims  !  watch  and  pray 
That  thou  may'st  not  go  astray  ; 
That  thy  troubled  spirit  may 
'Neath  the  Cross  its  burden  lay — 
Christian!  ever  watch  and  pray . 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  369 


THE  BROOK. 

See  the  jolly,  rippling  brook, 
As  it  flows  with  many  a  crook, 
Winding  all  the  meadow  through, 
Like  a  thread  of  crystal  blue. 

See  it  bubble,  sparkle  off, 
With  a  little  silvery  laugh  ; 
See  it  dance,  and  dash  away, 
All  so  mad,  and  free,  and  gay. 

See  it  here,  just  at  the  bridge, 
As  it  shuns  that  little  ridge, 
As  it  flows  along,  so  still — 
Pretty,  silent  little  rill. 

See  it  wash  the  pebbles  clean, 
See  it  dash,  with  silver  sheen, 
O'er  that  stone  that  stops  its  way 
With  a  barrier,  dark  and  gray. 

See  it  here  so  smoothly  lie, 
Like  a  bit  of  bright  blue  sky ; 
See  it  now,  as  on  it  flows, 
Making  music  as  it  goes ; 

Singing  to  itself,  in  notes 
Sweet  and  silvery,  as  it  floats ; 
Dallying  now,  in  merry  glee, 
With  the  roots  of  that  old  tree. 

See  it  wildly  rush  along, 
With  a  loud,  exultant  song ; 


370  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Bubbling,  sparkling,  gushing,  fair, 
Dancing,  babbling — free  as  air. 

Tell  me,  pretty  brooklet,  why 
Do  you  run  so  gaily  by  ? 
Stop,  I  pray,  and  tell  me  this — 
Why  are  you  so  full  of  bliss  ? 

Why  do  you,  as  though  't  were  joy, 
With  the  wild  grass  fondly  toy  ? 
Why  so  fiercely  spring  you  by 
Yonder  rock,  so  cold  and  dry  ? 

Why  do  you  so  softly  flow 
Where  the  pretty  mosses  grow  ? 
Do  you  love  the  cowslips  meek, 
That  their  homes  you  seem  to  seek? 

Tell  me,  brooklet,  what  you  say, 
As  you  sing  the  livelong  day : 
Are  you  singing  praise  to  Him 
Who  has  filled  you  to  the  brim  ? 

Stay,  my  pretty  brooklet,  stay; 
Do  not  haste  so  swift  away  : 
I  would  have  you  tell  me  how 
You  to  Him  so  gladly  bow. 

Teach,  I  pray,  teach  me  the  way, 
Thus  to  praise  Him  all  the  day; 
Bending  always  to  His  will — 
Trusting,  joyful,  happy  still. 

Thus  the  brooklet  answered  me. 
"  Tf  you  e'er  would  happy  be, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  371 

Love  your  Saviour,  trust  Him  still ; 
Be  submissive  to  His  will. 

"  Doubt  Him  not,  whate'er  betide ; 
Keep  Him  ever  at  your  side ; 
Ever  keep  this  truth  in  sight — 
Jesus  helps  you  when  you  're  right. 

"  Fret  not  over  follies  past; 
Keep  on  singing  to  the  last ; 
E'er  be  true  to  all  mankind, 
And  you  '11  have  a  peaceful  mind." 

Go,  then,  pretty  brooklet,  go ; 
On  your  way  forever  flow — 
Flow  with  song  of  merry  glee, 
Sparkling,  gladsome,  joyous,  free. 

For  the  lesson  thou  hast  taught 
Is  with  much  instruction  fraught. 
Onward  flow,  rejoicing  still — 
Happy,  gleesome  little  rill. 


FOUR-LEAFED  CLOVER. 

Lo,  I  wander  green  fields  over, 
Searching  if  I  can  discover, 
Anywhere,  a  four-leafed  clover. 

In  the  grass  I  bend  the  knee — 
But  all  clovers  that  I  see 
Have,  of  leaflets,  only  three. 


372  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Long  I  searched  with  anxious  eye, 
Noting  not  the  birds  that  fly, 
Hearing  not  the  cricket's  cry  — 

Trampling  on  the  violets  sweet  ; 
Heeding  not  the  daisies  neat; 
Crushing  blossoms  'neath  my  feet. 

I  the  sweet  fern  do  not  smell, 
For  on  me  there  is  a  spell  — 
Why,  or  whence,  I  can  not  tell,    * 

For,  of  all  the  things  that  be, 
Nothing  lovely  do  I  see  ; 
Seeking  for  deformity. 

Falling,  prone,  upon  the  ground, 
Peering  eagerly  around  ; 
Blind  to  beauty,  deaf  to  sound. 


But  my  labor  is  in 

Disappointed,  yet  again, 

On  the  grass  my  head  is  lain. 

Slowly  fading  from  my  sight 
Is  the  meadow,  fair  and  bright, 
Spotted  o'er  with  daisies  white. 

In  its  place  before  my  eyes 
Doth  deformity  arise, 
Filling  me  with  sad  surprise  — 
Indignantly  my  spirit  cries  : 

What  art  thou,  unsightly  thing, 
That  to  earth  disgrace  doth  bring  ? 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  373 

Lo  !  before  thy  Master  fling 
Thy  unrighteous  offering. 

How  darest  thou  usurp  the  place 
Of  loveliness  and  perfect  grace, 
Of  which  thou  bearest  not  a  trace  ? 
Go — in  disgust  I  hide  my  face ! 

Mockingly  the  answer  came, 
Surely  thou  dost  know  my  fame ; 
I  have  heard  thee  speak  my  name — 
Mortal,  it  is  still  the  same. 

I  had  thought  thou  wast  my  lover, 
For  thou  'st  wandered  green  fields  over, 
Searching  if  thou  couldst  discover 
Me,  yes,  me — a  four-leafed  clover ! 

Oh  !  was  it  this  so  long  I  sought  ? 
This,  with  gross  distortion  wrought  ? 
Tell  me  not  that  I  am  taught 
By  a  thing  with  vileness  fraught ! 

Horror,  then,  my  shame  to  sate, 
Thou  art  worthy  of  thy  fate — 
Fit  to  be  fore'er  the  mate 
Of  the  thing  thy  soul  doth  hate  ! 

From  my  troubled  dream  I  wake, 
From  the  grass  my  head  I  take, 
And  a  voice  the  silence  break : 

O,  thou  foolish,  erring  one  ! 
Well  thy  lesson  is  begun — 
Evil,  in  all  forms,  to  shun. 


374  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  some  purpose  of  my  own, 
Which  to  mortal,  is  unknown, 
Four-leafed  clovers  I  have  grown. 

When  'neath  any  shape  or  cover 
Deformity  is  seen  to  hover, 
Know  it  is  a  four-leafed  clover. 

At  last,  at  last  the  spell  is  broken ! 
Nature's  God  to  me  hath  spoken, 
Giving  of  His  truth  a  token — 

Giving  of  His  love  a  sign, 
Which  eternally  shall  shine 
With  a  radiance  divine; 

Spreading  out  before  my  soul 
Nature,  as  a  perfect  whole. 
Obedient  to  His  control. 

No  more  I  wander  green  fields  over, 
Searching  if  I  can  discover, 
Anywhere  a  four-leafed  clover. 

But  the  glories  I  rehearse 

Fill,  entire,  God's  universe 

With  a  rhythming,  chiming  verse. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  375 

CHARLES   CARPENTER, 

OF   WEST   CHARLESTON. 

DECOKATION  DAY'S  ECHO. 

A  lofty  granite  crowned  the  hill, 

Gay  garlands  crowned  the  chiseled  shaft, 
Flowers  breathed  around,  above,  among 
Names  that  at  death  and  treason  laughed ; 
Answering  to  no  roll-call  more, 
Until  Earth's  last  review  is  o'er. 

Words  that  were  born  of  Patriot  pride, 

Of  homage  to  the  fearless  dead, 
High  words  have  swelled  your  hearts  to-day 
As  bugle-blast,  theirs,  when  they  bled ; 
Love  of  the  same  great  nation's  good 
Wrung  out  your  tear-drops,  and  their  blood. 

These  beauteous  flowers,  these  praise-full  words, 

This  gathering  from  the  hills  afar — 
Are  no  mean  tribute  to  the  men 

Who  trembled  not,  but  died,  in  war ; 
Fit  place  your  poem-praise  to  tell 
Adorning  soldier's  graves  is  well. 

But,  are  your  duties  wholly  done 
Now  these  festivities  are  o'er  ? 
The  dust  you  honor  thus  to-day, 

Unheeding  sleeps  on  Southern  shore, 
Your  hearts  divide  these  throbbing  joys, 
They  reck  it  not :  dead  soldier-boys  ! 


376  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

A  fragrance  sweeter  than  of  flowers, 

That  with  the  sun's  decline,  decay : 
A  holier  homage,  than  the  tears 
Shed  freely,  lovingly,  to-day, 
A  fairer  gift,  a  fitter  meed, 
Awaits  your  future  speech,  and  deed. 

Hard  by  thy  home,  in  humble  cot, 

A  sad-eyed  widow  toils  and  weeps, 
The  tongue  whose  tones  made  all  her  joy, 
War's  bloody  signet  silent  keeps : 

Life's  long  day  stretches  out  in  gloom ; 
She  silent,  weary,  bears  her  doom. 

How  precious  to  the  needy  heart 

The  timely  gift,  the  tender  word, 
The  tear  true  sympathy  may  shed 
At  the  sad  story,  often  heard ; 

Give  where  the  heart  aches  to  receive, 
Yea,  prove  how  blessed  't  is  to  give. 

Poor  soldier-orphans  fill  our  land, 

A  countless  host,  from  shore  to  shore ; 
A  waiting  army  marshaled  stand 

At  every  church  and  school-house  door : 
Protect  from  wrong,  and  guide  their  youth, 
To  future  manhood,  virtue,  truth. 

But  all  the  heroes  did  not  die  ; 

The  granite  holds  not  every  name 
That  answered  the  wild  call  to  strife 
By  deeds  of  valor,  dear  to  Fame  ; 

A  shattered,  scarred  and  war-maimed  host, 
Tell  what  a  nation's  life  has  cost. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  377 

Death  leads  a  pale  and  thinning  corps, 

From  Southern  marsh,  and  drear  stockade ; 
The  wind  flaps  many  an  empty  sleeve, 
Like  tattered  sail,  o'er  crew  dismayed  ; 
The  maimed  and  feeble,  worn,  distressed 
Are  grimly  marching  to  their  rest. 

We  praise  the  hero,  stark  and  dead  ; 
We  praise  the  living  heroes  more, 
Who  cheerful,  daily,  still  repeat 
Their  sacrifices  o'er  and  o'er, 

In  one-armed  contest  for  their  life, 
In  want's  unequal,  ceaseless  strife. 

Lift  cheerfully  thy  brother's  load, 

He  gave  his  arm  to  save  thine  own ; 
Let  not  the  soldier's  orphan  bear 
The  brunt  of  toil  and  want  alone ; 
Had  not  his  father's  blood  been  shed, 
You  and  your  boy  might  both  be  dead. 

A  voice  whose  echoes  never  die, 

Whispers  the  thickening  centuries  through, 
From  Bethlehem's  star,  to  vanished  sky, 
"Love  as  thyself  thy  neighbor,"  too. — 
He,  by  the  signet  of  His  name, 
Seals  every  human  sufferer's  claim. 

For  Jesus'  sake,  then,  cheer  the  sad, 

Whose  deathward  way  is  near  thine  own  : 
Show  pity  where  there's  sorest  need, 
Just  as  His  generous  care  was  shown  ! 
Follow  thy  pattern  gone  before, 
And  rest  thee,  when  thy  life  is  o'er. 


378  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

OUR  VOYAGE. 

Written  to  be  sung  at  the  wedding  of  Carrie  Robinson. 

Two  little  oarless  skiffs  I  see, 

Afloat  on  life's  broad  river ; 
Like  severed  lily  blooms,  the  sports 

Of  tempest,  sheen,  and  shiver; 
Two  happy  ones  just  stepped  on  shore, 

With  oar  in  hand  are  staying ; 
And  smile  to  see  the  freightless  skiffs 

With  foamy  wave-crest  playing — 
As  spring-time  casts  her  flowers  away, 

Fair  pledge  of  Autumn's  treasure ; 
As  dreams  are  gladly  left  to  fade, 

To  grasp  the  real  pleasure. 

Around  a  point  of  jutting  rock, 

Where  deepest  floods  are  sweeping, 
And  circling  eddies  o'er  the  stream, 

Are  ever  softly  creeping, 
A  fairy  shallop  glides  to  view, 

White  swans  its  movements  guiding, 
And,  gently  o'er  the  wave- washed  sands, 

To  kiss  the  shore  't  is  gliding : 
The  happy  ones  commit  themselves 

To  shallop  and  the  river, 
No  other  landing-place  to  find, 

This  side  the  great  forever. 

Dear  friends  are  grouped  upon  the  shore 
To  view  their  outward  sailing, 

And  kindliest  smiles  speak  generous  hopes 
That  joy  be  never  failing. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  379 

Though  love's  bright  bands  are  passing  strong, 

And  never  may  be  broken, 
Still  Friendship  tells  of  tender  ties, 

In  language  all  unspoken ; 
While  prayer  ascends  from  hopeful  lips, 

That  naught  these  hearts  may  sever, 
But,  joined  with  ever  brightening  bands, 

May  happier  grow  forever. 

With  vows  so  softly  spoken  now, 

And  hearts  so  bound  together, 
With  steady  stroke  they  '11  breast  the  wave, 

No  matter  what  the  weather. 
If  storms  should  meet  their  upward  way, 

Or  tempests  thunder  loudly, 
United  hearts  and  hands  shall  win 

A  triumph,  ever  proudly. 
When  sunny  skies  may  smile  above, 

And  soft  breeze  kiss  the  river, 
The  joy  of  one  is  joy  of  both, 

Till  moored  in  yon  forever. 


LINES, 

Written  for  Mrs.  Jones,  and  published  with  notice  of  her  Little  Ida's  death. 

Buried,  our  only  one,  out  of  our  sight  ; 
Shrouded  our  home,  in  a  desolate  night ; 
Our  laughter  is  mourning,  our  pleasure  is  pain, 
Waiting  Tier  voice  and  her  footsteps,  in  vain. 

Death  was  our  guest  on  a  sorrowful  day, 
But  bore  not  his  victim  in  triumph  away, 


380  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  Jesus  received  her  e'en  home  to  His  breast ; 
There,  sinless  and  deathless,  forever  she  '11  rest. 

So,  when  we  may  weep  o'er  her  grass-covered  bed, 
We  '11  weep  not  as  those  without  hope  for  the  dead ; 
We  know  that  she  lives  mid  the  perfect  and  just, 
And  only  the  dust  crumbles  back  to  its  dust. 


THE  EMPTY  SLEEVE. 

Jostling  through  the  crowded  marts 

Of  business,  or  of  pleasure, 
Straining  nerve  to  win  the  meed 

Of  soul,  or  pocket  treasure  ; 
Unthinking  if  the  hearts  we  meet 

Do  now  rejoice  or  grieve ; 
We  lift  the  hat  unconsciously, 

To  meet  the  empty  sleeve. 

When  noble  sons  of  carnage 

Came  from  the  fattened  field, 
And  the  nation's  wound— by  slavery — 

With  a  nation's  Mood  was  healed ; 
When  we,  home-kept,  their  greeting 

From  the  left  hand  must  receive, 
The  eye  was  dimmed  and  misted 

By  that  empty  hanging  sleeve. 

We  said  their  toils  were  over, 

Their  sacrifice  was  made, 
And  to  rest  upon  their  laurels, 

In  our  thought,  the  brave  we  laid ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  381 

But  the  gift  was  just  commencing, 

Which  the  nation  must  receive ; 
Each  day  renews  the  sacrifice 

Of  that  pulseless,  empty  sleeve. 

The  staunch  right  arm  is  needed 

In  the  peaceful  walks  of  life ; 
'Tis  needed  in  the  toils  that  wage 

With  poverty  and  strife. 
There  's  a  shadow  o'er  his  pathway, 

From  which  there  's  no  reprieve, 
Of  a  gory,  shattered,  own  right-arm, 

And  an  ever  empty  sleeve. 

The  spirit  lists  to  voices  oft 

The  ear  cannot  detect ; 
The  heart  may  thrill  to  legends, 

That  the  world  does  not  suspect ; 
But  of  all  the  voiceless  pleaders 

Which  the  soul  hears,  I  believe 
No  silent  thing  is  eloquence, 

Like  a  worn,  Hue,  empty  sleeve. 


MY  CHEISTMAS  GIFT. 

"Written  Christmas  Eve,  after  returning  from  an  evening  festival,  and  having 
received  presents  from  friends  on  Christmas  tree. 

In  my  home  another  treasure; 

In  my  heart  another  thought  ; 
Lord !  I  thank  thee  for  the  pleasure 

These  unitedly  have  brought. 


382  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Precious  gift !  O  silver  whiteness, 
Like  the  sheen  of  winter  night ; 

Send  my  thoughts  o'er  drifts  of  brightness, 
To  yon  world  of  silv'rier  light ! 

Precious  thought !  0  sweet  vibrations 

Of  that  Eolian  orchestra  ! 
Quickening  all  the  soul's  pulsations, 

With  her  windows  just  ajar. 

Beauteous  pitcher !  keep  thy  burnish, 
Still  my  humble  board  to  grace ; 

Bid  each  guest  the  day  may  furnish, 
'  Mong  our  hearts,  a  welcome  place. 

Glad  assurance  !  when,  in  striving, 
Care's  big  burden  heavy  grown, 

Friends,  in  multitudes,  are  giving 
Smiles  and  strength  to  help  me  on. 

Fairest  basket !  by  thy  gleaming 
Fruitage  of  my  "gude  wife's"  art, 

Fairer  far,  shall  be  in  seeming, 
Richer  far,  to  taste  and  heart. 

Generous  proof!  to  give  me  pleasure, 
E'en  when  saddest  hours  may  be ; 

Wealth  of  Friendship's  kindliest  treasure. 
Undeserved,  alas  !  by  me, 


Words  are  naught.     But  where  my  life  is, 
There's  a  little  hallowed  spot 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  383 

Where  such  love,  as  prompts  such  giving, 
Is  not  easily  forgot. 

#  %  *  %  ¥r  *  # 

Father  !  bless  these  friends,  I  pray  Thee ; 

Shield  from  every  harm  and  ill ; 
All  their  garners  fill  with  plenty, 

All  their  hearts  may  Jesus  fill ! 

Brightest  treasures  they  may  give  me, 

Time's  slow  footprints  must  deface : 
Give  each  treasures  rust  can't  tarnish, 

In  yon  golden  crystal  place. 
Charleston,  Vt.,  Dec.  25,  1867. 


MRS.  THERESA  E.  FISHER, 

OF  WAITSPIELB. 

A  SONG  OF  THE  SEA. 

My  lonely  spirit  pines  for  thee, 
O,  wondrous,  ever-sounding  sea  ! 
I  miss  thee  when  the  morning  breaks, 
When  the  glad  earth  in  glory  wakes. 
The  sunrise,  breaking  o'er  the  hills, 
With  welcome  joy  my  spirit  fills  : 
I  turn  to  catch  its  light  o'er  thee ; 
I  turn  in  vain,  0,  far-off  sea. 

I  miss  thee  when  the  moon's  pale  light 
With  tender  radiance  fills  the  night ! 


384  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  know  her  softest  glances  rest 

Upon  the  azure  of  thy  breast. 

I  know  the  purest  moonbeams  sleep 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  deep  : 

But  not  for  me,  O,  not  for  me 

Their  soft  light  on  the  silver  sea  ! 

I  wake  at  midnight,  as  of  yore, 

To  listen  for  thy  solemn  roar ! 

The  breeze  sighs  gently  o'er  the  hill, 

But,  save  the  breeze,  all  earth  is  still : 

So  still  I  strain  my  ear,  though  vain, 

To  catch,  afar,  thy  hoarse  refrain ; 

But  all  night  long,  O  sounding  sea, 

Thou  art  singing  on,  though  not  for  me  ! 

But  when  against  the  window  pane 
The  wild  winds  dash  the  falling  rain — 
When  skies  grow  dark,  and  tempests  pour, 
And  winds  grow  wilder  than  before; 
Then  doth  my  heart  exultant  leap ! 
I  know  a  storm  is  on  the  deep  ! 
Then  course  my  pulses,  wild  and  free, 
Wild  as  thy  billows,  angry  sea  ! 

I  miss  thee,  miss  thee,  far-off  sea ! 
Oft  in  my  dreams  I  dream  of  thee  : 
In  dreams  thy  dotted  surface  view, 
Or  sail  upon  thy  waters  blue ; 
Or  watch  thy  waves,  with  sullen  roar, 
Come  slowly  creeping  up  the  shore, 
Until  the  Lord's  "  thus  far"  they  meet, 
Then  back,  in  foam,  they  slow  retreat ! 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  385 

In  dreams  I  wander  on  that  shore — 
I  walk  thy  white  and  sandy  floor ; 
I  wander  slow,  and  soft  repeat 
Some  poetic  fancy,  old  and  sweet ; 
Some  verse  of  Psalm,  or  song  refrain, 
Thy  waves  keep  chanting  in  my  brain — 
Some  old-time  poet's  thought  of  thee, 
0,  tuneful,  song-inspiring  sea ! 


A.  H.  MILLS, 

OF   MIDDLEBURT. 

THE  GIRLS. 

The  girls !  0,  the  girls,  what  a  queer  sort  of  creatures, 
Unlike  anything  else,  both  in  manners  and  features ; 

With  their  sweet  smiling  faces 

Displaying  their  graces, 

'Midst  profusion  of  ribbons,  and  ruffles,  and  laces ; 
Till  bewildered,  what  else  can  a  poor  fellow  do, 
Than  simply  to  love  them — and  tell  them  so,  too  ? 
They  '11  seem  to  be  angry  when  most  they  are  pleased, 
And,  while  feigning  resentment,  still  love  to  be  teased. 

If  a  fellow  proposes, 

They  '11  turn  up  their  noses, 

Or  pout  out  their  lips,  like  two  newly-blown  roses, 
So  invitingly  sweet  one  can  .scarcely  resist 
The  impression  that,  really,  they  wish  to  be  kissed. 
They  're  fond  of  extravagance,  too,  I  declare — 
Just  look,  if  you  will,  at  the  garments  they  wear : 


386  GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  then,  such  a  bonnet ! 

Why,  my  word  upon  it, 

A  butterfly  scarcely  could  seat  himself  on  it ; 
But  then,  it  's  "  the  style,"  and  displays,  I  suppose, 
To  the  greatest  advantage,  their  charms  to  the  beaux. 
What  other  new  folly,  think  you,  will  they  find, 
To  enlarge  their  proportions  more  fully  behind  ? 

Where  nature  's  been  sparing, 

'T  is  made  up  in  wearing 

Some  monstrous  invention  that  sets  people  staring, 
And  throws  unmistakably  far  in  the  shade, 
All  other  contrivances  known  to  the  trade. 
But,  ladies,  forgive  me,  I  Ve  said  quite  enough 
For  your  edification,  of  this  kind  of  stuff: 

Though  we  talk  thus  about  you, 

'T  is  not  that  we  doubt  you, 

And  we  well. understand  that  we  can't  live  without  you; 
So,  follow  the  fashions  as  much  as  you  please, 
And  suit  your  dear  selves,  though  you  walk  on  your  knees, 


THE  SLOTHFUL  FARMER. 

In  the  State  of  Vermont,  far  up  this  way, 
Where  we  labor  to  earn  our  bread, 

There  once  lived  a  man,  who,  as  I  Ve  heard  say, 
Spent  most  of  his  time  in  bed. 

Yet,  somehow,  he  managed  a  cow  to  keep, 
Together  with  three  or  four  hogs, 

And  a  small  flock  of  nearly  a  dozen  of  sheep, 
With  two  or  three  half-starved  dogs. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  387 

His  farm  had  become  so  exhausted  and  poor, 
That  naught,  to  advantage,  would  grow  ; 

For  it  never  had  yet  seen  a  coat  of  manure, 
Unless  't  was  a  coating  of  snow. 

His  buildings  showed  premature  signs  of  decay, 
With  boards  swinging  loose  in  the  wind ; 

While  the  rags  from  his  windows  were  blowing  away, 
Leaving  only  an  opening  behind. 

His  fences  were  ruined,  and  broken,  and  gone, 

Till  whatever  pleased  passed  through, 
And  't  was  seldom  he  had  any  more  plowing  done 

Than  just  what  his  hogs  could  do  ! 

His  crops,  when  once  planted,  were  suffered  to  go 

Without  his  assistance,  to  seed ; 
And  his  neighbors  all  wondered  his  corn  did  n't  grow, 

While  it  stood  in  such  excellent  feed ! 

And  thus,  with  each  crop,  it  would  still  be  the  same — 

It  would  never  be  tended  at  all ; 
And,  if  it  by  chance  to  maturity  came, 

It  was  suffered  to  waste  in  the  Fall. 

Thus  he  managed,  till  finally  hunger  and  want 
Drove  him  forth,  like  a  hog,  from  his  nest, 

And  he  swore  't  was  no  place  for  a  man  in  Vermont, 
So  he  sold,  and  removed  to  the  West. 


388  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


FOUND  DEAD. 

Over  yonder,  in  the  meadow, 

'Neath  that  old  oak's  ample  shadow 
As  it  were  a  place  selected  for  repose; 

Lay  she  there  just  as  they  found  her, 

With  her  shawl  drawn  close  around  her, 
But  from  whence,  or  how  she  came  there,  Heaven  knows. 

Such  a  young  and  lovely  creature, 

Of  such  perfect  form  and  feature, 
One  might  fancy  her  an  angel  in  disguise ; 

Who,  assuming  to  be  human, 

And  arrayed  in  garb  of  woman, 
Just  to  frighten  us,  had  fallen  from  the  skies ! 

On  her  head  she  wore  a  bonnet 

With  a  wreath  of  roses  on  it, 
Fitting  emblems,  they,  of  her  who  did  them  wear ; 

While  from  out  its  fast'nings  straying, 

And  with  wanton  breezes  playing, 
Gleamed  a  rich  and  glossy  tress  of  golden  hair. 

There  were  trimmings  on  the  border 

Of  her  garments,  which  in  order 
Were  arranged,  as  though  reposing  on  a  bed : 

And  while  lying  there  before  us, 

With  the  heavens  smiling  o'er  us, 
It  was  hard  to  make  it  seem  that  she  was  dead. 

A  ring  gleamed  on  her  finger, 
And  perchance,  her  thoughts  did  linger 
On  the  giver,  as  she  sank  to  earth  and  died : 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  389 

And  while  here  in  death  she  slumbers, 
All  in  vain,  alas !  he  numbers 
Every  hour,  till  he  shall  claim  her  as  a  bride. 

From  the  place  where  she  was  lying, 

She  was  borne  away  with  sighing, 
With  her  white  arms  meekly  folded  o'er  her  breast ; 

Tender  hands  with  care  conveyed  her, 

And,  in  solemn  silence,  laid  her, 
A  sweet  rose-bud,  in  a  stranger's  grave  to  rest. 

There  's  a  home  somewhere  in  mourning, 

Where,  alas !  no  more,  returning, 
Falls  the  echo  of  her  footsteps  at  the  door ; 

And  while  loving  hearts  are  breaking, 

Calm  she  sleeps,  where  no  awaking 
Comes  to  greet  her  youthful  vision  evermore. 


DO  YOU  MISS  ME  ? 

Do  we  miss  thee !  ask  of  midnight, 

Does  it  miss  the  light  of  noon ; 
Ask  the  rose  with  faded  petals, 

Has  the  Summer  fled  too  soon  ? 
Ask  the  trees,  whose  naked  branches 

Wave  before  the  northern  blast, 
Do  they  miss  what  made  their  freshness, 

And  their  glory  in  the  past  ? 

We  have  seen  the  Spring  in  beauty, 
Walk  abroad  upon  the  earth, 

While  attendant  on  her  footsteps 
Sweetest  flowers  sprang  into  birth ; 


390  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  the  notes  of  feathered  songsters 
Came  from  every  glade  and  glen, 

As  though  all  things  were  conspiring 
To  make  glad  the  hearts  of  men. 

Then  came  Summer,  ever  welcome, 

With  its  wealth  of  rainbow  skies, 
With  its  glowing,  golden  sunsets, 

And  its  clouds  of  thousand  dyes ; 
With  its  long,  bright  days  of  sunlight, 

And  its  blessed  showers  of  rain, 
Giving  promise  of  rich  harvest 

To  the  fields  of  waving  grain. 

Next  in  order,  grand  old  Autumn 

Comes  with  overflowing  horn, 
With  its  fruit-o'erladen  branches, 

And  its  sheaves  of  ripened  corn ; 
With  its  friendly  social  gath'rings, 

And  their  words  of  sweetest  cheer ; 
While  the  lovely  Indian  Summer 

With  its  glories  crowns  the  year. 

Yet  through  all  these  happy  seasons, 

I  have  missed  thee  from  my  side, 
My  faithful  friend  and  comforter, 

My  counsellor,  my  guide  ; 
And  oft  from  where  the  sons  of  mirth 

Their  boisterous  vigils  keep, 
In  silence  and  in  solitude 

I  've  turned  away  to  weep. 

0,  blessed  is  the  memory 
Of  happy  days  gone  by, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  391 

When  earth  to  me  was  Paradise, 

If  only  thou  wert  nigh ; 
When  joys  sprang  up  along  our  path, 

Perennial  and  free, 
And  sorrow  half  like  pleasure  seemed, 

So  't  was  shared  with  thee. 

I  knew — indeed,  had  always  known, 

That  we  must  one  day  part, 
But,  loved  one,  how  reluctantly 

I  laid  this  truth  to  heart; 
Or  with  what  faintness  realized 

The  sadness  that  must  come, 
When  we  should  hear  thy  voice  no  more 

In  our  once  happy  home. 

O'er  all  those  scenes  which  charmed  our  sight, 

A  shadow  seems  to  fall, 
Earth's  most  enchanting  melodies 

Have  lost  their  sweetness,  all ; 
It  sometimes  seems  as  if  my  heart 

Had  almost  helpless  grown, 
So  lost,  and  weak,  without  the  strength 

It  borrowed  from  thine  own. 

But  God  forbid  that  I  should  seem 

To  murmur  or  repine  ; 
Enough  to  know  that  in  the  past, 

My  life  was  blest  by  thine ; 
Enough  to  feel,  when  once  from  earth 

And  earthly  sorrows  free, 
That  Heaven,  with  all  its  blessedness, 

Is  to  be  shared  with  thee.    * 


392  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

THE  ACORN. 

Deep  in  the  silent  forest's  shade, 

A  single  acorn  fell  • 
And  where  its  tiny  form  was  laid, 
No  human  tongue  could  tell : 
It  chose  a  lone,  secluded  spot, 
And  soon  by  all  was  quite  forgot. 

And  Winter  swept  across  the  earth, 

In  storms  of  fiercest  wrath, 
It  hushed  the  notes  of  woodland  mirth, 
While  ruin  marked  its  path  ; 
Yet  safe  it  lay  within  its  cell, 
The  self-same  spot  where  first  it  fell. 

Soon  Spring  returned,  with  genial  showers, 

And  Sol's  reviving  rays ; 
The  earth  was  clothed  in  richest  flowers, 
And  birds  poured  forth  their  lays  : 
It  burst  its  bonds,  and  once  set  free, 
It  took  the  shape  of  forest  tree. 

All  silently  its  infant  form 
Rose  slowly  into  view, 
Protected  from  the  threatening  storm 
Securely  where  it  grew ; 

While  birds  their  sweetest  carols  sung 
Its  gentle,  yielding  boughs  among. 

Years  rolled  away,  and  now  a  tree 

Of  giant  size,  it  stood ; 
It  rose  in  stately  majesty, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  393 

A  monarch  of  the  wood  ; 

It  bore  a  trunk  erect  and  fair, 
Its  long  arms  waving  in  the  air. 

Once  more  were  years  around  it  cast, 
And  now  it  seemed  to  be 

I  A  monument  of  ages  past — 

That  old  deserted  tree  ; 
Its  kindred  all  had  long  since  fled, 
Itself  was  leafless,  scathed  and  dead. 

It  stood  within  a  narrow  space 

As  't  were  almost  forgot ; 
Amidst  a  wild,  degenerate  race, 

Who  spurned  its  exiled  lot ; 

I  A  stranger  in  its  fatherland, 

Borne  down  by  Time's  relentless  hand. 

'T  is  thus  with  man :  at  first  so  frail, 

So  subject  to  decay, 

That  scarce  a  breath  that  sweeps  the  vale, 
But  seeks  him  for  its  prey  : 

He  passeth  some  few  fleeting  years 
Amidst  anxiety  and  fears. 

But  Time,  whose  mighty  torrent  rolls 

Resistlessly  along, 
And  bears,  alike,  to  final  goals, 
The  feeble  and  the  strong  ; 

Soon  wafts  him  on  to  man's  estate, 
To  mingle  with  the  wise  and  great. 

And  now  behold  him  in  the  pride 
Of  intellect  refined ; 


394  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

See  ships  o'er  mighty  billows  glide, 
Controlled  by  mightier  Mind ; 

He  bids  the  winds  subserve  his  will, 
And  all  his  purposes  fulfil. 

Directed  by  all  powerful  mind, 

He  visits  distant  shores, 
Or,  leaving  grovelling  earth  behind, 
He  unknown  worlds  explores ; 
Omnipotence  he  almost  dares, 
And  holds  communion  with  the  stars! 

Where  e'er  the  sun  hath  ever  shone, 

Wherever  man  hath  trod, 
Its  secrets  all  are  made  his  own — 
He  deems  himself  a  god — 

Wrests  lightnings  from  Jehovah's  hands 
To  execute  his  own  commands ! 

• 

But  soon  his  powers  begin  to  droop, 

To  age  and  care  a  prey; 
His  manly  form  inclines  to  stoop — 
His  hair  is  turned  to  gray; 

The  lustre  of  those  eyes  is  dim, 
And  palsy  quakes  in  every  limb. 

Still  with  a  death-like  grasp  he  clings 

Tenaciously  to  life, 

While  all  his  waning  powers  he  brings 
To  wage  the  unequal  strife; 

But  all  in  vain,  his  triumph  's  o'er, 
Earth  owns  his  magic  sway  no  more. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  395 

His  proud  achievements  still  remain, 

But  soon  that  wasted  form, 
Which,  like  a  stock  of  ripened  grain, 
Bows  to  the  passing  storm — 

Yields  to  the  pressure  of  the  blast, 
And  finds  repose  in  death,  at  last. 


MRS.    FRANCES    L.    HYDE    DEARBORN, 

Wife  of  the  late  Dr.  J.  G.  Dearborn,  of  Granby,  Missouri,  was  born 
in  Wallingford,  Vt.     She  now  resides  in  Cambridge,  Vt. 


LINES, 

On  the  death  of  her  only  child,  Frances  Lucia  Dearborn,  who  died  in  the  seventh 
year  of  her  ago. 

I  '11  mourn  not  for  my  darling  child, 

Though  she  hath  passed  away, 
Ifike  a  golden  ray  of  sunlight, 

At  the  hour  of  parting  day. 

I  '11  weep  not,  though  her  lovely  form 

Is  laid  within  the  tomb ; 
No  sorrow,  now,  can  shed  its  blight 

Upon  her  spirit's  bloom. 

Sleep,  dearest  one ;  0,  sweetly  sleep 

Within  thy  grave  so  low ; 
I  would  not  wish  thy  spirit  back, 

To  dwell  again  below, 

Where  grief  is  ever  hovering  near, 
To  shroud  the  soul  in  gloom ; 


396  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"Pis  better,  far,  for  thee  to  rest 
Within  thy  early  tomb. 

Thy  Father  called,  and  thou  art  gone 
To  yon  bright  world  unknown ; 

He  bade  thee  bid  adieu  to  earth, 
And  took  thee  fondly  home. 

And  now,  in  yonder  blissful  realms, 
A  spotless  robe  is  thine ; 

A  heavenly  crown  is  given  thee, 
Eternally  to  shine. 

Then  I  '11  mourn  not  for  my  loved  one, 
Though  she  hath  passed  away, 

Like  a  golden  ray  of  sunlight, 
At  the  hour  of  parting  day. 


MUSIC. 

0  tell  me  not  that  music's  strain, 
Can  yield  one  soothing  ray ; 

Or  bid  the  heart  to  wake  again, 
To  joys  that  fade  away. 

Its  tones  recall  the  golden  hours, 
And  echo  back  the  years ; 

But  yet,  alas  !  like  withered  flowers, 
Their  bloom  no  more  appears. 

If  thou  would'st  bid  my  soul  to  weep 
O'er  scenes  of  by-gone  days ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  397 

Then  let  soft  music,  low  and  sweet, 
Breathe  forth  its  melting  lays. 

'T  will  tremble  o'er  the  slumb'ring  strings 

When  dying  mem'ries  moan, 
And  wake,  alas !  those  hidden  springs, 

That  I  would  leave  alone. 


EVENING  MUSINGS. 

The  moonlight  glimmers  through  the  trees ; 

And  o'er  my  chamber  floor 
Throws  mystic  shadows,  strange  and  dim, 

As  in  the  days  of  yore. 
Sweet  visions,  stamped  on  memory's  wall, 

Seem  gliding  through  the  room, 
And  hark !  is  it  their  snowy  robes 

T^Jiat  rustle  mid  the  gloom  ? 

Ah,  no  !  't  is  but  the  evening  breeze 

That  sways  the  old  oak  tree, 
And  wbistles  through  the  waving  boughs, 

Its  fitful  lullaby. 
Yet  still,  methinks,  I  hear  the  tones, 

Soft,  silvery  and  low, 
Of  those  I  loved,  in  childhood  hours, 

In  days  of  "  long  ago." 

Boll  on,  roll  on,  thou  golden  orb, 
And  sigh,  thou  evening  breeze ; 

I  love  to  watch  the  mystic  forms, 
Made  by  the  old  oak  trees : 


398  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  youthful  days  throng  back  again, 

As  shadows,  dark  and  tall, 
Dance  strangely  with  their  ghost -like  forms, 

Upon  my  chamber  wall. 

Oh,  mem'ry !  thou  art  still  too  true, 

And  faithful  to  thy  trust, 
The  living  are  by  thee  enshrined, 

The  dead  returned  to  dust. 
The  moonbeam,  resting  on  the  wall, 

The  winds  low,  harp-like  tone, 
Is  linked  by  mem'ry  to  the  soul, 

With  magic  power  unknown. 
Beloit,  June,  1857. 


TO  THE  DEPARTED. 

I  know  thou  art  waiting  for  me 

In  the  land  of  the  blest ; 
My  spiritual  eye  doth  discern  thee, 

Celestially  dressed. 

All  radiant  with  the  joys  of  yon  heaven, 

And  jeweled  thy  crown; 
0,  why  should  I  mourn  thy  departure, 

When  such  joys  thou  hast  found. 

I  must  not — for  the  hand  of  affliction 

Has  taught  me  to  learn 
How  the  home  of  the  pure  and  immortal, 

Mine  eyes  can  discern. 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  399 

How  to  lift  the  thin  veil  that  obscures  them, 

The  door  is  left  little  ajar, 
And  the  glory  of  God  shineth  through  it, 

Like  some  bright  and  beautiful  star. 

I  can  hear  the  deep  swell  of  music, 

From  Eternity's  sea ; 
And  a  voice,   I  know  its  sweet  accents, 

Is  now  calling  for  me. 

Thank  heaven  for  the  "silvery  lining," 

Though  gloomy  the  cloud, 
And  its  bright,  ineffable  beauty, 

Its  mist  doth  enshroud. 

Ere  long,  my  dear  loved  ones,  I  '11  meet  you 

On  Jordan's  bright  shore ; 
Come,  clasp  me,  when  death  dims  my  vision, 

To  part  never  more. 

I  dread  not  the  summoning  Angel, 

He  opens  the  gate  to  the  blest ; 
He  's  kind  to  the  weary  and  careworn, 

And  lays  them  down  to  their  rest. 
Maquoketa,  Aug.  17,  1867. 


400  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

HIRAM  C.  ORCUTT,  M.,D., 

GRADUATED  AT  DARTMOUTH  MEDICAL  COLLEGE  IN  1845 — now  LIVES  AT  DERBY  CENTER. 

LINES 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  DEATH  OF  A  CHILD,  SEPT.  30, 1844,  AT  EAST  CALAIS,  VT. 

Strong  were  the  ties,  dear  child,  that  bound 

Thee  to  a  mother's  heart ; 
How  hard  to  feel,  and  yet  't  was  found 

That  thou  from  her  must  part. 
Yes,  lovely  babe,  thy  parents  grieve 

That  thou  by  Death  art  slain, 
And  yet  they  know  and  may  believe 

Their  loss  to  be  thy  gain. 
Thy  darling  form  is  cold  in  death, 

Smiles  play  not  on  thy  cheek; 
A  budding  mind  will  not  unfold, 

And  thou  wilt  never  speak, 
O  dearest  child,  can  it  be  so  ? 

How  hard  to  give  thee  up ! 
Say,  wilt  thou  never  with  us  go, 

Nor  take  the  handed  cup  ? 
How  can  a  parent's  love  endure 

The  sad  and  lonely  thought : 
What  object  in  the  world,  so  pure, 

Before  their  minds  is  brought  ? 
Though  hard  the  stroke,  and  deep  the  grief, 

Yet,  parents,  you  shall  find 
The  Christian's  hope  will  bring  relief — 

Composure  to  the  mind. 
Although  the  child  shall  ne'er  return, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  4Q1 

Yet  you  shall  follow  soon ; 
The  joys  of  meeting  there  to  learn — 

Say,  is  it  not  a  boon  ? 
Yes,  for,  beyond  death's  gloomy  maze 

A  better  world,  the  sphere — 
That  lovely  face  shall  meet  your  gaze, 

While  joy  begets  a  tear. 
Such  hopes  should  be  your  comfort  now, 

As  time  moves  on  apace ; 
To  Heaven's  mandate  meekly  bow, 

And  trust  the  God  of  grace. 


LINES. 

SUGGESTED  BY  THE  DEATH  OF  HENRIETTA  B.  GEORGE,  SEPT.  13, 1862. 

Thus  it  is,  and  has  been  ever, 
Nature's  strongest  ties  must  sever; 
God,  whose  right  it  is  to  reign, 
Exempts  no  mortal  here  from  pain. 

Yea,  more,  't  is  written  on  the  wall, 
The  loved  of  earth  by  death  must  fall : 
So  Henrietta  passed  away, 
But  is  it  not  to  endless  day  ? 

Yes,  of  her  presence  though  we  're  shorn, 
As  without  hope  we  need  not  mourn  : 
No,  doubt  it  not,  our  tears  refrain; 
Our  loss  is  her  eternal  gain. 

Long  since  she  trusted  God  on  high, 
Affections  placed  beyond  the  sky, 


402  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Her  faults  were  mortal — faith  divine — 
Her  Christian  virtues  e'er  shall  shine. 

Happy  thought !  in  death's  dark  hour, 
She  proved  religion's  buoyant  power; 
Serenely  passed  her  life  away  ; 
Renewed  it  is,  in  endless  day. 

Family  circle,  thus  just  broken, 
Seek  secure  some  heavenly  token, 
That  when  life's  trials  all  are  o'er, 
We  '11  meet  her  on  the  other  shore. 

Thanks  to  God,  His  right  to  reign — 
Thanks  to  Christ,  that  He  should  deign 
Such  hopes  to  sinful  mortals  give, 
Himself  to  die  that  we  might  live. 


GOD'S  PATIENCE. 

Heavenly  Father,  gentle,  kind, 
Thy  patience  rushes  o'er  my  mind — 
Sinful,  wicked,  mean  am  I, 
And  yet,  alas  !   so  soon  to  die. 

Perhaps  another  sun  or  two 
May  roll,  ere  I  shall  bid  adieu 
To  all  I  've  loved  and  sought  below; 
Will  then  the  tear  of  anguish  flow  ? 

My  Saviour,  slighted,  disobeyed, 
His  cause  neglected  and  betrayed, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  4Q3 

Dare  I  then  call  His  sacred  name ; 
And  He  refuse,  I  ne'er  could  blame. 

God  of  patience,  love,  and  truth, 
I  sought  and  found  Thee  in  my  youth, 
And  still  in  Thee,  O  God,  I  '11  trust, 
None  else  can  save,  even  the  just. 

What  else  can  wicked  mortals  do 
But  call  on  Thee  for  mercy,  too  ? 
Keep  me,  Lord,  by  thy  right  arm 
In  virtue's  path,  from  every  harm. 

And  when  I  die,  my  God  on  high, 

0  take  me,  wilt  Thou,  to  the  sky  ? 

1  know  my  God  is  more  than  just, 
His  patience,  pardon,  all  my  trust. 


MRS.  HELEN  M.  ORCUTT, 

OF   DERBY   CENTER. 

LIKES, 

TO  HER  DAUGHTER  FLORA,  BEFORE  MARRIAGE. 

How  many  times,  upon  my  breast, 
In  helplessness  you  Ve  lain  ; 

And  mother  tried,  with  tenderest  care, 
To  soothe  your  every  pain. 

You  now  have  found  another's  love 
More  sweet,  more  dear  to  you ; 


404  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Dear  girl,  0  may  it  ever  prove 
As  constant,  kind  and  true. 

Our  homes  on  earth  are  sundered  far 
By  mountain,  lake  and  river; 

But  when  from  earth  we  pass  away, 
Shall  we  not  dwell  together  ? 

Your  darling  brother,  now  on  high, 
Still  loves  and  cares  for  you ; 

Although  you  connot  see  his  form 
Flit  through  the  ethereal  blue. 

God,  too,  my  child,  with  watchful  eye, 
Looks,  from  His  throne  above, 

Upon  your  every  action  here, 
With  more  than  mother's  love. 

Yet  storms  will  come,  and  cloud  your  sky, 

And  troubles  oft  assail ; 
Then  look  to  Him  with  prayerful  eye, 

Whose  arm  can  never  fail. 

As  down  the  stream  of  life  you  glide, 

Keep  ever  in  your  view 
The  Cross  whereon  the  Saviour  died — 

He  shed  His  blood  for  you. 

Go,  Flora  dear,  to  your  new  home, 
Though  far  away  from  mine; 

Your  mother's  blessings  and  her  prayers 
Are  still,  as  ever,  thine. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.     .  405 

MISS  MATTIE    E.  THOMPSON HOW  MRS.  MATTIE    E.  ELRICH, 

OF   WEST   BERKSHIRE. 

PEACE. 

Peace !  Ah,  the  word  for  us  hath  greater  charms, 
Since  hearts  have  shivered  at  dread  war's  alarms ; 
Since  earth  hath  shook  and  trembled  at  the  sound 
Of  fearful  strife,  on  many  a  battle-ground; 
And  hath  been  deluged  in  a  sea  of  blood 
Flowing  from  human  hearts — a  fearful  flood. 
Since,  in  this  conflict  between  right  and  wrong, 
The  nation  hath  been  struggling  for  so  long ; 
Now  right  hath  triumphed,  and  the  war  doth  cease, 
Sweeter,  far  sweeter,  is  the  dawn  of  peace. 
Peace !  peace !  I  close  my  eyes  and  say  it  o'er ; 
And  thought  goes  onward  to  the  heavenly  shore, 
Beyond  death's  river,  and  beyond  this  life, 
Which  has  for  me,  with  sin,  a  constant  strife. 
0,  t  'will  be  sweet,  beyond  that  surging  tide, 
To  know  that  never  more  unto  my  side 
Will  come  the  spectre  Sin,  who  all  my  life 
Doth  haunt  me,  till  I  'm  weary  of  the  strife. 
Then,  soul,  be  patient — strong  to  watch  and  pray, 
Until  the  dawning  of  Heaven's  peaceful  day; 
Then  shall  the  rest  and  peace  be  sweeter,  far, 
That  here  life  was  a  scene  of  toil  a'nd  war. 


406  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


TO  S.  A.  W. 

My  soul  to  thee,  poor  weary  one, 

Goes  out  to-day : 
And  prayer  for  thee,  to  Heaven,  tends 

Its  upward  way. 

And  though  life's  cares  and  labors  press 

On  every  side  ; 
Still,  spite  of  all,  thou  'st  in  my  heart 

A  chamber  wide. 

Ne'er,  in  the  days  long  fled  away, 

When  dreamingly 
We  wandered  in  green  paths — a  life 

That  seemingly 

Could  not  have  ended  as  it  has ; 

Ne'er  then  did  I 
Feel  for  you  such  a  tender  love, 

And  sympathy. 

For  love  hath  strengthened  in  the  years 

Of  toil  and  pain ; 
As  plants  grow  hardier,  for  storms 

Of  wind  and  rain. 

"Whom  the  Lord  loves  He  chastens:"  then 

You  must  He  love  : 
You  will  He  take,  when  breaks  the  "  bowl," 

To  rest  above. 

Will  not  that  rest  be  sweeter  for 
The  suffering  here  ? 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  407 

For  thou  hast  wept,  and  there  will  God 
Wipe  off  each  tear. 

Here,  hath  sore  trial  borne  thee  down, 

And  grief  oppressed ; 
There,  with  the  loved  and  holy,  thou 

Wilt  sweetly  rest. 

If,  by  the  silver  waters  there, 

We  then  shall  meet, 
We  shall  remember  not  the  toil, 

Or  weary  feet. 

May  God  be  with  us  both,  till  then, 

And  us  sustain, 
Till,  in  Heaven's  peace  and  gladness,  we 

Forget  all  pain. 


AT  HOME. 

At  home  again,  and  by  the  lake, 

In  the  old  familiar  seat; 
And  the  dear  old  waves  came  rippling  up 

To  kiss  my  welcome  feet : 

I  come  in  the  early  morning  time 
To  the  low  rock  on  the  shore, 

Where  oft  in  the  morn  and  oft  at  eve, 
I  've  seated  me  before. 

The  sun  makes  paths  of  golden  light, 
In  the  woods  across  the  bay, 


408  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  in  the  waves  around  my  feet, 
The  lights  and  shadows  play. 
I  lay  aside  my  hat,  and  toss 

The  hair  from  off  my  brow  : 
The  birch,  low  drooping  o'er  my  head, 

May  kiss  me  welcome  now. 

My  heart  is  filled  with  joy  and  peace, 
And  praise  to  God  above, 

For  this  dear  home  where  I  now  dwell, 
And  which  I  so  much  love. 


WHAT  PKOGRESS? 

Am  I  any  nearer  Heaven  than  I  was  a  year  ago  ? 

Are  my  footsteps  on  life's  journey,  although  weary,  weak 

Leading  me  the  way  I  ought  to  go  ?  [and  slow, 

Every  time  that  over  earth  the  twilight  creepeth,  cold  and 

gray, 

Hiding,  in  its  somber  mantle,  the  departing  form  of  day, 
I  should  have  made  advancement  in  the  way. 

But  my  footsteps,  weak  and  trembling,  sometimes  take  me 

from  the  right, 

And  I  find  that  I  have  wandered  into  darkness,  out  of  light, 
When  there  falleth  down  the  curtain  of  the  night. 

But  the  by-paths  do  not  please  me,  and  I  go  back  to  'the 

road, 

That  I  know  alone  can  lead  me  to  the  city  of  our  God, 
Where  I  hope,  at  last,  to  lay  aside  my  load. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  409 

Help  me,  then,  0  blest  Redeemer,  to  keep  in  the  narrow  way; 
Strengthen  me  to  keep  right  onward,  hour  by  hour,  and  day 

by  day, 
Till  at  last  in  Heaven  my  weary  feet  I  stay. 


WAITING. 

Maiden,  with  the  dark  brown  tresses 
Waving  o'er  thy  shoulders  fair; 

With  the  eyes  of  earnest  meaning, 
And  the  brow  unmarked  by  care. 

Why  that  glance  so  deep  and  thoughtful, 
Through  the  open  window  thrown  ? 

Ah  !  no  heart  doth  pay  thee  homage, 
Maiden,  thou  art  all  alone. 

Thou  art  thinking,  while  thine  eye-glance 

Rests  upon  the  autumn  sky, 
Other  maidens  are  beloved ; 
Why,  O  why,  then,  am  not  I  ? 

In  my  heart  lie  warm  aifections 
Cherished  for  I  know  not  who ; 

Will  he  ever  come,  I  wonder, 

With  the  heart  so  warm  and  true. 

Ah,  methinks  it  would  be  pleasant, 
More  than  pleasant,  't  would  be  sweet, 

If  a  noble  heart  beat  faster 
At  the  coming  of  my  feet. 


410  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Gentle  maiden,  be  not  weary, 
Time  doth  many  changes  bring ; 

Filled  with  happiness,  the  warm  heart 
Yet  with  songs  of  joy  may  ring. 


CAPT.  GEORGE  H.  BLAKE, 

OF  SOUTH  BARTON 


The  following  Valedictory  was  delivered  at  the  close  of  the  fall  term  of  Hardwick 
Academy,  1863. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  it  seems  that  all  the  joys 
and  pleasures  of  the  past  are  summed  up,  and  come  crowd 
ing  themselves  upon  the  memory  at  once.  Thus  it  seems 
now.  The  remembrance  of  the  happy  scenes  that  we  have 
enjoyed  together  here  fills  the  mind  at  this  moment.  There 
is  no  sad  reflection  in  the  past,  and  only  in  the  present,  in 
the  thought  that  these  bright  scenes  have  come  to  an  end, 
and  we  have  gathered  in  this  little  circle  to  listen  to  a  few 
words  of  parting. 

And  mine  the  task  to  say  the  last  farewell — 
Would  that  my  words  could  half  my  feelings  tell — 
But  feeble  voice  cannot,  by  words,  reveal 
The  fervent  love  that  kindred  spirits  feel. 

Respected  teachers !  when  we  turn  to  you 

To  speak  a  parting  word — a  sad  adieu, 

There  is  a  feeling  in  each  swelling  heart 

That's  only  known,  when  friends  from  friends  depart. 

To  him,  who  here  has  met  us,  day  by  day, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  4H 

To  guide  us  onward  in  our  classic  way — 

Whose  kind  advice  has  set  our  feet  aright, . 

And  urged  them  on  with  strength  and  might ; 

A  thousand  grateful  thanks  we  freely  give — 

May  joy  be  ever  his — and  while  we  live, 

In  cheerful  accents  shall  our  voices  raise 

To  speak  his  merit  and  to  sound  his  praise. 

From  her,  who  not  to-night  can  meet  us  here, 

We  cannot  part  without  a  falling  tear; 

So  gentle,  so  good,  so  modest,  so  kind; 

So  lovely  of  soul,  so  noble  of  mind — 

Fair  one,  the  thought  of  her  shall  ever  be 

Among  the  treasures  of  the  memory ; 

And  when,  again,  a  band  like  this  shall  meet, 

May  she,  restored  to  health,  their  presence  greet. 

Of  all  our  teachers  we  can  speak  in  praise ; 

May  the  light  of  joy,  with  benignant  rays, 

Shine  on  their  heads,  ever  brilliant  and  clear, 

To  welcome  and  bless,  to  comfort  and  cheer. 

Now,  fellow  schoolmates,  do  I  turn  to  you 

To  say  the  bitter  word — the  sad  adieu. 

Oft  have  we  met ;  but  now  we  meet  to  part ; 

How  grieves  each  soul,  how  heaves  each  beating  heart 

To  know  that  ne'er  again  we  all  shall  meet 

In  these  same  bonds  of  union,  strong  and  sweet. 

We  leave  this  place  to  go,  we  know  not  where — 

Scattered,  like  withered  leaves  by  Autumn  air : 

On  life's  rough  sea  we  take  our  rapid  sail, 

Impelled  along  by  fortune's  fickle  gale ; 

Time  soon  shall  write  upon  our  heads  its  years, 

And  mark  our  cheeks  with  sorrow's  falling  tears. 

Too  soon  some  lovely  form  we  now  behold 

Shall  molder  in  the  tomb,  silent  and  cold, 


412  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

This  night  we  sadly  part,  and  know  not  when 

We  meet,  if  e'er  we  meet  on  earth  again  : 

But  if  we  meet  not,  we  cannot  forget; 

No,  the  star  of  friendship  shall  never  set. 

The  sacred  ties  that  twine  around  the  heart 

Cannot  be  broken,  even  though  we  part. 

Kind  friends !  each  scene  is  closed,  each  piece  is  heard, 

And  now  to  you  a  friendly  parting  word  : 

We  thank  you  much  that  you  have  met  us  here ; 

Long  will  we  hold  you  in  remembrance  dear; 

May  peace  and  happiness  your  ways  attend — 

And  when,  at  length,  the  scenes  of  life  shall  end, 

And  all  its  joys  and  sorrows  shall  be  past, 

0,  may  kind  Heaven  receive  you  all  at  last, 

There,  through  a  long  eternity  to  dwell, 

Friends,  teachers,  schoolmates  !  I  bid  you  all  farewell. 


REV.    J.    E.    RANKIN,    D.    D., 

WASHINGTON,  D.  C. 


THE  AULD  SCOTCH  MITHER,  AND  HOW  SHE 
WELCOMED  HEK  MALCOLM. 

There  was  great  bustle  at  a  Highland  inn, 
One  summer  afternoon,  without,  within; 
For  Malcolm  Anderson — who,  years  before, 
Had  left  his  mother's  cottage,  young  and  poor, 
His  fortune  in  his  little  sailor's  chest, 
And  in  the  blessing  that  his  mother  blest — 
With  wife  and  children,  servants,  baggage,  all, 
Had  landed  from  the  mail  coach  in  the  hall. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  413 

It  was  a  hamlet  'neath  Ben  Nevis'  head, 

That  looked  up,  smiling,  from  the  valley's  bed  : 

Some  dozen  houses,  with  the  old  gray  kirk, 

A  few  poor  acres,  but  enriched  by  work — 

By  honest  Highland  toil,  by  sweat  of  brow, 

Where  men  and  women  delved  with  spade  and  plow, 

Or  where,  indoors,  the  good  wives  wove  and  spun, 

And  brought  up  children,  as  their  dames  had  done. 

A  brook  went  tumbling,  headlong,  boisterous,  down, 

And  ground  the  oatmeal  for  the  little  town ; 

A  bridge  the  sundered  street  re-bound  in  one, 

From  which  you  saw  the  yeasty  waters  run. 

Ben  Nevis,  with  his  head  wrapped  in  a  cloud, 

Like  some  old  grandsire,  o'er  the  landscape  bowed : 

He  saw  the  village  children  as  they  played ; 

He  saw  the  lover  trysting  with  the  maid ; 

Down  on  these  smoking  chimneys,  year  by  year, 

He  looked  and  smiled,  and  blessed  their  humble  cheer  ; 

He  looked  and  smiled,  like  some  old  idol  grim, 

As  though  they  offered  incense  up  to  him ; 

He  heard  the  millstones  grinding  at  his  foot, 

Down  o'er  the  rocks  the  dashing  waters  shoot ; 

And  merry,  to  his  ears,  rang  up  the  note 

The  blacksmith  from  his  ringing  anvil  smote  ; 

And  when  the  doors  were  open  to  the  air, 

He  heard  the  guidman  in  his  praise  and  prayer. 

And  here,  among  the  heather  and  the  rocks, 

The  hamlet  kept  its  ill-assorted  flocks  : 

Climbed  up  his  brow  a  cosset  lamb,  a  goat, 

Each  step  proclaiming,  with  a  tinkling  note  ; 

And,  lower  down,  above  the  garden's  line, 

Contented,  grazed  the  grateful,  great-eyed  kine. 

Who  Malcolm  was,  of  course,  no  mortal  knew  : 


414  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

His  name  he  'd  given  the  landlord,  it  is  true  ; 

But  twenty  years  had  slowly  come  and  gone, 

And  twenty  years  had  built  up  bone  and  brawn, 

And  care  and  toil  had,  in  his  wavy,  chestnut  hair, 

Woven  a  thread  of  silver  here  and  there; 

The  little  sapling,  which,  with  nimble  feet 

He  'd  climbed,  now  stretched  its  arms  across  the  street ; 

So  now  he  was  a  stranger  in  the  very  town 

Each  foot  of  which  his  childhood  steps  had  known. 

Besides,  the  landlord  was  but  lately  there, 

And  so  received  him  with  a  grateful  stare  : 

O 

Native  or  stranger,  he  was  quite  as  glad, 
And  welcomed  him  to  take  the  best  he  had  : 
The  rooms  were  low,  the  windows  very  small ; 
He  and  his  wife  responded  to  each  call. 
But  Malcolm,  with  the  thought  pre-occupied, 
From  wife  and  children  soon  withdrew  aside, 
And,  taking  off  his  dress  from  head  to  foot, 
Quickly  put  on  a  common  sailor's  suit — 
Pea-jacket,  pants,  and  hat — such  as  he  wore 
When  he  went  seaward,  twenty  years  before ; 
And  then,  by  by-paths  that  in  youth  he  'd  known, 
He  sought  his  mother's  cottage  door  alone. 
The  footworn  way  he  trod,  again,  along 
Where  he  had  shouted  out  his  childhood's  song, 
Where  he  had  whistled  many  a  sailor  air, 
Before  he  left  his  good  old  mother's  care. 
There  are,  above,  the  very  chestnut-trees 
'Gainst  which  he  used  to  plant  his  climbing  knees ; 
And  here,  midway,  still  stands  the  awkward  stone 
That  many  a  time  his  heedless  foot  has  thrown  ; 
And  now  he  sits  again  the  old  stone  stile, 
And  waits,  to  look  the  landscape  o'er,  a  while. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  415 

Before  him  is  the  little  cottage,  where 

His  tiny  feet  first  learned  to  climb  the  stair — 

A  stone's  throw  distant  from  him,  that  is  all. 

No  dog  would  answer  to  the  old-time  call, 

Nor  bound,  as  once,  the  intervening  wall; 

For  old  Rob  Roy,  worn  out,  toothless,  and  dumb, 

Long  years  ago  to  his  last  sleep  had  come. 

There  is  his  window  o'er  the  sloping  roof, 

The  apple-tree,  with  branches  spread  aloof, 

The  old  stone  chimney,  awkward,  huge,  and  square, 

Still  curls,  with  sluggish  smoke  ascending  there. 

Oh  how  his  heart  beneath  his  bosom  smote ! 

Oh  how  it  leaped  into  his  choking  throat ! 

For,  through  the  mist  that  blinds  his  eager  eyes, 

His  mother,  in  the  window,  he  espies; 

And  hark  ! — oh,  how  it  made  his  senses  reel ! — 

She's  crooning,  softly,  to  her  spinning-wheel; 

The  same  sweet  voice,  broken  although  it  be, 

With  which  she  sang  when  he  sat  on  her  knee. 

And  she's  the  same,  although  the  precious  form 

Is  doubled  up,  from  meeting  many  a  storm : 

The  locks  of  auburn,  that  he  used  to  know, 

Are  white  as  winter's  deep,  undrifted  snow ; 

The  eyes  are  dim,  that  shone  like  flowers  in  dew, 

Searching,  yet  tender — deep  as  heaven's  own  blue  ; 

And  yet  her  cheeks  are  blooming,  like  the  rose 

Beneath  a  bank  of  melting  Alpine  snows — 

The  same  sweet  tint  that  youth  had  painted,  first, 

Before  life's  tempests  on  her  head  had  burst. 

He  knocked,  at  length,  and  then  he,  waiting,  stood, 

Eager  to  meet  and  test  her  motherhood. 

No  answer  came,  except  the  hollow  sound 

Of  his  own  blow,  the  death-like  cottage  round ; 


416  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

He  knocked  again,  and  said,  in  undertone, 

"  She's  grown  quite  deaf,  I  surely  might  have  known." 

"  Coom  ben  !"  in  her  old-fashioned,  simple  way, 

As  often  to  a  guest  he  'd  heard  her  say. 

She  brought  a  chair;  nor  had  he  scarce  sat  down, 

Before  he  asked  the  way  to  Kinlock  town. 

His  garments  they  were  new,  but  corase  and  rough ; 

His  accent  English ;    and  his  voice  was  gruff. 

"  Gang  through  the  town,  across  the  burnie's  bed, 

Keep  up  the  hill,  to  left  nor  right  your  head  ; 

When  at  the  hight,  turn  round  the  old  gray  kirk." 

She  eyed  him  once,  and  then  put  by  her  work. 

He  weary  seemed,  all  crouching  in  his  chair, 

And  broken  down  with  travel,  grief,  or  care. 

It  made  her  sigh.     "  And  are  ye  Scotch  by  birth  ? 

Why  went  ye  then  a  roaming  roun'  the  earth  ?" 

"Ah,  yes!  I'm  Scotch;  but  I  am  altered  so, 

That  her  own  son  my  mother  would  not  know, 

Although  a  mother  kinder  could  not  be 

Before  I  left  her  and  went  off  to  sea." 

"Ah,  mon  !  of  mithers  ye  do  little  ken, 

If  that's  your  ain  conviction  of  them,  then, 

A  mither  'd  ken  the  bairn  she  fondly  pressed 

On  her  ain  bosom  to  a  lo'in'  rest, 

Wha  teuk  the  snawy  draught  frae  out  her  breast, 

An'  toddled  roun'  in  the  auld  household  nest , 

She  'd  ken  her  bairn,  her  lo'in'  e'es  sae  keen, 

Where'er  he  were,  wherever  he  had  been  ; 

Her  ear  wad  ken  his  footfa'  on  the  walk, 

She'd  ken  him  by  his  gait  and  by  his  talk. 

But  tell  me,  mon,  how  far  your  foot  could  reach, 

That  ye  sud  lose  the  Scotch  frae  out  your  speech  ? 

On  Arctic  snavvs,  or  India's  scorchin'  sands, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  417 

Where  ha'e  ye  wandered  roun'  through  mony  lands, 
That  ye  ha'e  tined  the  tongue  your  mither  taught, — 
The  auld  Scotch    tongue,    wi'  sich    sweet    memories 

fraught  ?" 

"  Oh!  in  Calcutta  I  have  lived  for  years." 
At  that  she  sighed ;  and  then  she  said,  with  tears, 
u  And,  when  ye  lived  there,  did  ye  chance  upon 
A  bairn  o'  mine  — one  Malcolm  Anderson  ?" 
"  There's  many  of  that  name  I  knew  full  well. 
What  is  he,  ma'am  ?     A  merchant  there  did  dwell, 
About  my  age  and  build,  and  wealthy,  too." 
"  Malcolm's  a  merchant,  that  is  very  true; 
But  he  is  younger,  far,  by  mony  a  year, 
An'  bonnier  far,  than  you  do  now  appear. 
I  beg  your  pardon,  mon  ;  a  mither's  pride 
Sich  points  o'  likeness  can  fu'  weel  decide. 
An',  then,  he  stood  up  firm,  and  straight,  and  tall, 
As  though  he  walked  a  laird  within  his  hall ; 
His  han's  were  like  a  lassie's  saft  an'  white  ; 
His  tressy  hair  was  thick  and  glossy  bright  ; 
His  cheeks  were  like  the  new  blawn  rose,  to  me, 
That  hangs,  half  open,  on  the  mither-tree ; 
His  swellin'  brow  was  pure  as  any  snaw  ; 
And,  in  his  een,  that  answered  to  your  ca', 
There  was  a  glint  just  like  the  e'enen'  star — 
A  glint  o'  light  across  a  sky  o'  blue, 
A  leuk  that  seemed  to  search  a  body  through : 
Ye're  not  my  Malcolm,  mon,  by  very  far, 
Although  a  decent  mither's  son,  nae  doubt,  ye  are." 
The  stranger  rose,  as  if  to  take  his  leave — 
That  he  had  altered  so,  slow  to  believe. 
"  Oh  !  bide  a  bit,  ye've    gang'd  sae  lang  a  way, 
An'  eat  wi'  us,  before  we  part,  I  pray." 


418  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Thus  did  the  kind  old  mother  rise  and  say. 

He  had  not  answered  her,  before  she  went 

And,  up  the  stairway,  this  brief  summons  sent — 

"  Maggie,  coom  down,  and  set  the  supper  on ! " 

For  now  the  parting  day  was  well-nigh  gone. 

And  so  the  two  spread  out  a  clean  repast, 

And  he  drew  nigh  to  eat,  as  she  had  asked. 

She  closed  her  eyes,  and  drooped  her  frosted  head, 

And,  reverently,  a  simple  grace  she  said. 

The  stranger  took  upon  his  plate  the  food  ; 

He  tried  to  eat,  but  still  untouched  it  stood  ; 

His  soul  within  him  was  too  deeply  stirred  ; 

He  was  too  hungry  for  some  loving  word ; 

His  heart  was  leaping,  in  too  eager  haste, 

The  sweetness  of  his  mother's  lips  to  taste. 

"  Ye  dinna  eat,  my  mon  :  what  can  we  bring? 

What  wad  ye  relish-?     Is  there  ony  thing?" 

"  There  is  a  dish  my  mother  used  to  make, 

I  'd  gladly  taste,  if  only  for  her  sake — 

'Tis  oatmeal  porridge;  taken  from  her  hand, 

I  'd  be  the  happiest  man  in  any  land." 

"  Parritch,  ye  mean  !  "  his  mother  quick  replied : 

u  There  's  some  that's  left  from  dinner,  set  aside  ; 

It  stan's  within  the  pantry,  very  near; 

But  then  it  's  cauld.     Maggie,  just  han'  it  here  !" 

"  If  it  but  have  the  taste  it  had  of  old, 

I  do  not  care  if  it  be  hot,  or  cold." 

He  took  the  bowl,  and  then  he  stirred  the  spoon, 

And  she  began  to  mark  the  motion  soon. 

And,  when  he  twirled  it  by  some  boyhood  art, 

Half  from  her  chair  she  rose,  with  sudden  start; 

And  then  she  trembled,  then  was  pale  as  death, 

And  then  she  said,  as  fast  as  came  her  breath — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  419 

"  Ye  minded  me  o'  my  ain  Malcolm,  then  ; 
There,  there  !   just  lift  your  spoon  that  way  again. 
Just  sae  his  parritch  he  was  wont  to  stir  : 

0  laddie  !  now,  my  Malcolm,  gin,  ye  were  !" 

"  Ah,  weel  then,  gin  I  were  your  Malcolm,  come 

To  cheer  your  auld  age  in  your  auld-time  home, 

Or  gin  your  braw  young  Malcolm  were  as  brown, 

An,  auld,  an'  gray,  an'  bald,  an'  doublit  down, 

That  Malcolm,  mither,  wad  ye  now  incline 

To  lo'e  him  as  ye  did  in  dear  lang  syne  ?" 

His  language  had  become  his  mother's  own  ; 

She  heard  again  the  old  familiar  tone ; 

At  once  her  aged  breath  comes  thick  and  fast, 

And  gathering  tears  begin  to  fall,  at  last : 

And  when  he  calls  her  wither,  then  she  goes 

With  one  glad  cry,  and,  tottering  toward  him,  throws 

Her  fainting  form  upon  his  manly  breast, 

With  her  excessive  joy,  weak  and  distressed  ; 

And,  like  a  child,  within  his  bosom  hides, 

While  many  a  tear-drop  down  his  rough  face  glides. 

Her  brow  he  kisses,  then  her  face  and  hand, 

And  calls  her  all  dear  names  he  can  command; 

While  in  his  face  she  looks,  beyond  a  doubt 

If  she,  perchance,  can  make  her  Malcolm  out. 

At  last,  by  these  caresses  satisfied, 

And,  lacking  words,  they  seat  them  side  by  side. 

"  But  Malcolm,  wife  and  bairns — where  are  they  all?" 

"  Oh  !  at  the  inn,  within  a  minute's  call." 

11  Go,  bring  them  here,  to  bless  my  achin'  e'e  ; 

1  scarcely  hoped  this  happy  day  to  see." 

"  But  in  the  cottage  ha'e  ye  surely  room  ?" 
"  I  Ml  manage  that.     Go,  bid  them  a'  to  coom  : 


420  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"  I  ha'e  twa  rooms,  wi'  neebor  closets  wide, 

An'  shelves  weel  packed  wi'  glides  on  ilka  side, 

Wi'  things  for  years  I  Ve  woven  or  ha'e  spun.' 

"  Weel,  mither,  now  ye  '11  rest:  your  work  is  done." 

"  'T  wad  mickle  irk  my  soul,  I  ken  fu'  weel, 

Idle  to  see  my  loom  or  spinnin'  wheel ; 

This  side  the  grave  to  rest  I  dinna  care ; 

Fu'  lang  a  time  I  '11  ha'e  to  rest  me  there. 

I  canna  bear  these  wrinklet  han's  to  fauld 

Till  they  are  crossed,  to  molder  in  the  mold ; 

There  '11  be,  'twixt  then  an'  resurrection- day, 

For  needfu'  rest,  fu'  time  enough  to  stay. 

But  hasten,  now,  your  wife  and  bairns  to  bring ; 

Against  it  we  '11  make  ready  ilka  thing : 

I  hope  to  like  your  wife,  I  want  to  see 

The  bonnie  bairns  ;  I  hope  that  they  '11  like  me." 

The  good  dame's  hopes,  each  one,  proved  very  true  ; 

She  liked  them  well,  and  well  they  liked  her,  too. 

That  night  before  their  rest,  in  holy  calm, 

They  knelt  in  prayer — they  sang  an  old  Scotch  psalm ; 

And  then,  the  good  wife's  palsied  voice  instead, 

Her  Malcolm's  own  the  welcome  worship  led. 

Bright  was  the  cottage  thence,  within,  without. — 

Without  with  rose  and  woodbine  clung  about, 

Within  with  childhood  ways  and  childhood  glee, 

With  books,  and  sports,  and  ringing  melody  : 

But  sometimes  would  the  grand-dame  call  around 

The  little  group,  and  still  their  boisterous  sound  ; 

While,  as  she  told,  their  eager  eyes  would  swim, 

How  Malcolm  came,  and  how  she  welcomed  him. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  421 

G.    NELSON   BRIGHAM,    M.    D., 

OF    MONTPELIER. 


Dr.  Brigham  published  a  volume  of  his  poems,  in  1870,  that  has  been  very  highly 
complimented  by  the  press. 

IDA  LENORE. 

The  lost  Lenore — the  beautiful  Lenore — 

The  angel-resembling  Lenore — the  child 
Of  high-born  birth,  but  lost  out  of  earth, 

A  day  unfortunate  to  me.     The  mild, 
The  affectionate  child  of  incomparable  worth, 

Who  came  in,  one  night,  at  our  door, 

The  lovable  Ida  Lenore. 

The  sweet  tempered  Lenore — gone  back  unto  Heaven; 

And  a  darkness  left  in  the  house  evermore ; 
Left  us  with  our  hands  imploring  her  stay — 

Fled  out  of  a  land  where  the  feet  grow  sore, 
To  the  crimson,  a  golden  flower-land  away ; 

This  lovable  child  Lenore, 

Who  went  one  night  from  our  door. 

The  light-hearted  Lenore,  alas,  I  still 

Remember,  just  as  she  toddled  my  floor; 
With  her  arms  like  a  cherub's  so  white  and  bare, 

With  a  chin  and  a  cheek  which  the  dimples  run  o'er, 
And  her  wavy  tresses  of  flaxen  hair ; 

This  lovable  child  Lenore, 

Who  went  one  night  from  our  door. 

0,  that  it  should  be  so  !  that  the  hand 
Of  an  evil  distemper  fall  on  her ; 


422  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

That  the  angels  should  love  her  more  than  we ; 

That  I  should  be  made  Heaven's  almoner, 
While  np  through  the  flickering,  starry  sea, 

The  hovering  pinions  are  more 

Than  the  flowers  the  broad  earth  o'er. 

But  I  know  it  is  well  with  the  child  Lenore, 

For  none  ever  looked  on  her  but  to  love, 
And  none  ever  thought  of  her  as  of  earth — 

But  I  comforted  myself  that  my  darling,  my  dove, 
Who  dropped  from  the  spheres  with  these  marks  of  herbirth? 

Would  longer  await  at  my  door, 

The  beautiful  Ida  Lenore. 

The  lost  Lenore,  the  beautiful  Lenor«  ! 

With  the  angelhood  at  the  rosy  gates, 
By  cerulean  Edens  her  form  I  see  : 

And  what  if  her  heaven-life  antedates 
On  the  dial  awhile !  in  the  Great  to  Be 

We  shall  find  the  Ida  Lenore, 

Our  beloved  and  our  darling  evermore. 


THE  OLD  MAN  AND  THE  ANGEL. 

The  clock  has  plodded  along  till  five, 

In  an  Autumn  day  of  the  year ; 
The  strolling  bee  returns  to  his  hive 

From  the  pastures,  brown  and  sere ; 
The  frost  has  nipt  the  vines  on  the  wall, 

And  the  dead  leaves  begin  to  fall. 

In-doors,  the  grandma  sits  in  her  chair, 
With  the  wrinkled  lines  on  her  face ; 


GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  423 

And,  bleached  into  white,  her  dark  brown  hair; 

While  walks,  with  a  faltering  pace, 
The  floor  of  the  hall,  her  other  half, 
-    Low  bent,  and  leaning  upon  his  staff. 

Clearing  tfre  table,  in  middle  life, 

Is  a  woman,  genteel  and  fair, 
And  a  hale  looking  man,  who  calls  her  wife, 

Sits  near — a  happy  pair, 
Discoursing  together  of  the  sermon  read ; 
And  then  of  their  cousins  this  Sunday  wed. 

A  chap,  not  two,  with  eyes  of  blue, 

And  abundance  of  golden  curls, 
There  creeps,  and  plays  with  his  grandma's  shoes; 

While  two  little  pink-dressed  girls 
A  psalm-book  unto  the  old  man  bring, 
And  clamor,  aloud,  to  hear  him  sing. 

With  trembling  voice,  he  pitches  and  sings 

The  olden  tune  of  Mear — 
The  grandma  joins,  like  a  harp  with  strings 

Half  broken,  and  drops  a  tear  : 
They  both  do  seem,  in  their  whitened  locks, 
Like  sheaves  of  grain  in  the  Autumn  shocks. 

The  children  gaze  in  the  old  man's  eye, 

As  he  brushes  a  tear  away, 
And  ask,  "  What  makes  grandpa  cry  ?" 

And  he  says,  c*  I  remember  the  day 
It  was  said  to  me,  "  Be  of  good  cheer  " — 
And  the  time  draws  near — the  end  of  the  year." 

For  devotion  soon  they  gather  round, 
And,  from  its  place  on  the  shelf 


424  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Is  brought  the  Bible,  in  sheepskin  bound, 
Ni£h  as  old  as  the  sire  himself. 

O 

His  spectacles  placed,  he  reads  from  Isaiah  ; 
Then  kneels  at  the  altar,  and  offers  prayer. 

The  shadows  of  evening  round  them  fall, 
And  the  moonbeams  steal  on  the  floor; 

'Tis  hushed  within,  and  asleep  are  all, 
The  child  and  the  man  of  fourscore. 

An  angel  comes  in  the  shape  of  Death, 

With  golden  harp  and  an  amaranth  wreath, 

And  whispers  a  word  in  the  sleeper's  ear — 
O'er  his  face  comes  a  beaming  ray, 

And  his  lips  say  softly.  "  The  end  of  the  year  :" 
And  he  breathed  his  last  as  he  lay. 

They  woke  within,  at  the  break  of  dawn, 

But  the  good  old  man  and  the  angel  were  gone. 


THE  OLD  HOME  COTTAGE. 

Among  New  England's  northern  hills, 

The  old  home  cottage  stands ; 
The  moss  is  seen  upon  its  sills, 
-    The  dust  is  on  its  jambs ; 

A  quaint  old  house  of  square-hewn  blocks, 

With  woodbine  on  its  eaves ; 
An  oak  beside  the  gate,  where  rocks 

The  hang-bird  'mong  its  leaves. 

O,  to  it  cling  old  mem'ries  dear, 
Dear  bonds  but  death  can  free  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  425 

We  left  it  with  a  blinding  tear, 
And  in  deep  agony. 

From  ruin,  Time,  this  threshold  spare ; 

Buffet  with  tender  blow; 
I  would  not  see  the  grass  grow  where 

Our  walk  wound  long  ago. 

Bright  glowed  the  yule-log's  winter  flame  ; 

And  cheerful  rose  our  songs ; 
Old  house,  to  me  you  are  the  same 

In  all  neglects  and  wrongs. 

O,  keep  for  me  my  vacant  chair, 

My  friend  in  days  of  cheer  ; 
Alack,  what  if  I  were  but  there, 

How  would  old  things  appear  ? 

Should  I  yet  meet  a  sister's  smile, 

Her  arms  flung  out  to  me  ? 
Plods  on  old  Roan  his  weary  mile, 

At  tug  and  whiffletree  ? 

My  dog — sleeps  he  upon  the  rug  ? 

Keeps  kitty  up  her  purr  ? 
I  see  you  all  ensconced  so  snug — 

Myself  a  wanderer. 

Ah,  much  I  fear  to  look  on  what 

Old  Time  has  done  for  you  ! 
I  dread  to  see  that  lowly  spot 

Beside  the  weeping  yew  : 

I  've  wished  to  come  for  mother's  sake — 
Her  loss  how  can  I  bear ! 


426  GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

O,  oft  she  's  watched  till  morning's  break 
At  duty  and  in  prayer. 

Mementos  are  among  the  trees 
Which  hide  the  garden  walks ; 

A  tender  sound  is  in  the  hreeze 
That  waves  the  mullein  stalks. 

And  underneath  the  apple-tree, 

Beside  the  sedgy  hrook, 
Were  faces  which  once  met  with  me, 

On  which  I  shall  not  look. 

The  garlands  gathered  in  the  grove, 

By  angel  fingers  twined — 
Alas !  they  wither,  as  I  rove — 

My  father  grows  more  blind. 

The  spider  weaves  her  cunning  web 

About  my  old  bedroom  ; 
And  on,  and  on  the  life  tides  ebb, 

Which  bear  us  to  our  doom. 

And  when  again,  oh  !  when  shall  I 
Sit  round  that  welcome  hearth  ? 

And  who  remains  that  said  good-bye, 
And  who  are  not  of  earth  ? 

Among  New  England's  northern  hills, 
The  old  home  cottage  stands ; 

The  moss  is  seen  upon  its  sills, 
The  dust  is  on  its  jambs. 

The  low-roofed  cot,  with  barns  apart ; 
Wood-shed  and  big  wood-pile  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  427 

O,  ever  clings  my  yearning  heart 
To  every  beam  and  tile. 


MISS  ANNA  BRYANT, 

OF  WEST  ENOSBURGH. 

THE  OLD  DREAM. 

Old  Nature  wore  her  flaunting  robes 

Of  brilliant  red  and  yellow, 
And  all  the  Autumn  air  was  filled 

With  hazes,  soft  and  mellow. 

The  scarlet  leafage  of  the  trees 

O  m 

The  bland  south  winds  were  bending ; 
Yet  mem'ry  with  that  Autumn  day 
A  sad,  sweet  dream  is  blending. 

She  stood  beneath  our  old  roof-trees, 
Then  crimson  with  September  ; 

A  radiant  creature  in  her  pride 

Of  wealth,  and  blood,  and  splendor. 

Her  queenly  glance  fell  full  on  mine, 
One  single  breathless  minute  ; 

A  something  mocking,  lightly  sad, 
With  scorn  and  pity  in  it. 

0,  I  an  ill-dressed  country  lad ; 
She  clad  in  silks  and  laces; 

I  with  my  homespun,  homely  ways- 
She  with  her  airy  graces  ! 


428  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  with  uncouth,  uncultured  thoughts, 

/In  rude  provincial  vesture  ; 
She  with  her  wealth  of  polished  words 
And  piquant  grace  of  gesture ! 

A  fateful  glamour  o'er  me  fell, 

For,  with  a  gloomy  daring, 
I  loved  her,  though  that  very  love 

Seemed  but  a  fond  despairing. 

She  went  her  way,  and  I  went  mine  ; 

Then,  in  the  gay  September, 
I  with  a  world-full  to  forget — 

She  nothing  to  remember. 

Since  then  I  Ve  mingled  with  the  world, 
And  caught  its  courtly  graces  ; 

But  ever  in  a  feverish  haste, 
Amid  its  forms  and  faces, 

My  heart  has  seemed  to  seek  for  one 
It  worships  most  and  prizes  ; 

But  many  Autumns  have  returned 
With  their  flamboyant  guises. 

And  many  times  the  old  roof-trees, 

In  ruddy  colors  burning, 
Have  brought  sharp  memories  of  that  day ; 

But  not  its  sweet  returning. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  429 

ISAAC   W.   SANBOKN, 

OP   LTNDONVILLE. 

FAIRY  RAY  OF  SUNSHINE. 

0,  fairy  ray  of  sunshine, 

Full  of  joy  and  love, 
Like  an  angel  messenger, 

From  the  world  above. 

Driving  out  the  darkness, 

Letting  in  the  light ; 
Giving  earth  a  beauty — 

Day  instead  of  night. 

Coming  from  the  day-king, 

Streaming  through  the  sky ; 
Lighting  up  the  starry  way, 

As  it  passes  by. 

Happy  in  the  glory 

Of  its  heaven  and  love 
Is  the  ray  of  sunshine 

Beaming  from  above. 


THE  SUMMER  DAYS  ARE  COMING. 

The  Summer  days  are  coming, 
With  sunshine  and  with  flowers, 

When  beauty  decks,  in  verdant  bloom, 
The  mountains,  hills  and  bowers  ; 


430  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

When  every  field  and  meadow 
Is  clothed  in  green  attire, 

And  gladness  in  her  gayety, 
Strikes  loud  her  joyful  lyre  ! 

All  nature  smiles  its  welcome, 

When  Summer  rules  the  world, 
With  fields  of  grass  and  waving  grain, 

Like  banners  all  unfurled : 
The  songsters  of  the  woodland, 

In  plumage  bright  and  gay, 
Unite  to  trill  their  joyous  harps 

In  merry  roundelay. 

There's  splendor  in  old  Winter, 

When  all  his  blasts  are  keen, 
And  over  all  the  forest  trees 

He  spreads  his  silvery  sheen. 
But  when  each  field  and  meadow 

Breathes  Summer's  balmy  air, 
Young  Gladness,  in  her  gayety, 

Strikes  loud  her  joyful  lyre  ! 


KEJOICE— THE  STKIFE  IS  ENDED. 

Written  at  the  close  of  the  Rebellion. 

Rejoice,  rejoice,  the  strife  is  ended, 

For  our  country  and  its  laws ; 
The  right  prevails,  the  battle's  ended 

In  victory  to  the  Union  cause. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  431 

Rejoice,  rejoice,  the  strife  is  ended ; 

Treason  's  crushed  and  freedom  reigns ; 
Musket  ball  and  cannon  blended 

To  break  and  banish  slavery's  chains. 

Rejoice  again  !  with  a  heart  rejoice  ! 

And  shout  the  glories  bravely  won ; 
Ten  thousand  thanks !  let  every  voice 

Exalt  the  service  that  is  done. 

A  country  saved  from  treason,  death, 

A  race  redeemed  from  slavery  ; 
We  '11  honor,  till  our  latest  breath, 

The  valor  of  our  Soldiery. 


THE  SCHOOL  BOY'S  SONG. 

Away,  away  to  school  T  '11  go, 
Thus  early  though  it  be ; 

Over  the  light  and  drifted  snow, 
I  '11  trip  right  merrily. 

I  will  not  loiter  by  the  way, 

And  make  myself  a  fool  ; 
Nor  linger  with  the  boys  at  play, 

When  it  is  time  for  school.  • 

My  teacher's  rules  I  will  obey, 

In  all  that  I  shall  do  ; 
When  [  my  recitations  say, 

I  '11  speak  with  promptness,  too. 


432  GKEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  '11  mind  my  studies,  as  I  ought  ; 

My  time  shall  not  be  lost ; 
For  learning,  though  so  dearly  bought, 

Is  doubly  worth  the  cost. 

To  school,  to  school  I  then  will  go, 

And  study  while  I  may ; 
I'  11  live  to  learn,  and  learn  to  do 

My  duty,  every  day. 


THE  DAY  OF  JUBILEE. 

JANUARY  1,  1863. 

Freedom  reigns  !  the  glorious  day, 

The  day  of  jubilee  ! 
Slavery's  power  has  lost  its  sway, 

Its  victims  ever  free. 

Rejoice  ye  hills,  ye  mountains  high, 

Declare  the  glory  far  ; 
Freedom  is  king  !  and  justice  nigh 

Is  crowned  an  honored  star. 


The  morning  breaks,  the  sun  appears 
To  light  the  course  of  future  years; 
Its  dawn  has  flushed  the  Northern  sky; 
The  Southern  clouds  before  it  fly. 

The  day  has  come !  rejoice,  rejoice  ! 
Let  Freedom  gladden  every  voice ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  433 

Awake  the  song  of  jubilee — 
Afric's  sons  are  forever  free  ! 


MISS    EUNICE   TOWN—  now   MRS.    EUNICE   POTTLE, 

OF   STOWE. 


The  following  poem  was  written  and  delivered  at  the  close  of  the  Spring  Term 
of  Stowe  High  School,  1865. 

A  DREAM. 

Last  night,  when  slumber's  curtains  soft 

Had  shrouded  reason's  beams, 
The  mother  *  that  I  never  saw 

Came  to  me  in  my  dreams. 

It  will  be  twenty  weary  years, 

When  next  May  roses  bloom, 
Since  they  laid  her  fair,  gentle  head 

On  its  pillow  in  the  tomb. 

But  when  she  came  last  night,  and  stood 

In  silence,  by  my  side, 
I  thought  not,  in  that  happy  dream, 

That  she  had  ever  died. 

I  thought  not  of  her  lonely  grave 

In  the  church-yard  so  low, 
Nor  of  her  pure  soul  gone  away, 

Where  God's  beloved  go. 

*Mrs.  Pottle's  mother  died  when  she  was  five  months  old. 


434  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  had  forgotten  all  the  tears 
To  her  dear  memory  shed; 

I  thought  I  saw  her  living  face — 
Forgetting  she  was  dead. 

Her  fair  hair  had  a  golden  glow, 
Her  eyes  were  calmly  bright, 

Her  garments  like  the  drifted  snow, 
Beneath  the  moon's  full  light. 

O 

A  blessed  calm,  a  tranquil  peace 
Seemed  her  whole  mien  to  fill ; 

Like  starlight  on  a  placid  lake — 
So  holy,  yet  so  still. 

Joyful  I  took  her  hand,  and  gazed 

Into  her  eyes  serene ; 
She  seemed  as  far  removed  from  me 

As  if  seas  swept  between. 

With  awe,  yet  not  appalled,  I  pressed 

My  lips  upon  her  face  ; 
There  seemed  to  be  between  us,  yet, 

A  vast  and  awful  space. 

A  gulf  too  wide"  for  thought  to  pass, 
Though  strong  its  wings  and  fleet; 

A  barrier  placed  between  our  souls, 
Forbidding  them  to  meet. 

Alarmed,  I  cried — "  O,  mother  !  friend  ! 

What  is  this  mystery  ? 
And  whence  and  why  this  fearful  void 

That  severs  thee  from  me? 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS         435 

"  Speak  !  speak !  my  soul  is  faint  with  dread, 

For,  though  I  kiss  thy  brow, 
Yet  the  remotest  star  o'erhead 

Seems  much  more  near  than  thou." 

Then  faint  and  trembling  I  awoke — 

The  morn  was  blushing  red; 
And  I  bethought  me,  with  a  start, 

That  she  had  long  been  dead. 

Redeemer,  when  the  time  shall  come, 

That  my  weak  soul  must  tread 
That  awful  gulf  which  separates 

The  living  from  the  dead, 

0,  let  it  cling  to  Thee  alone ; 

Be  Thou  its  strength  and  stay ; 
Guide  Thou  its  faint  and  shrinking  steps 

Safe  through  that  dreadful  way. 

And  when  the  shores  of  Heaven  are  gained, 

The  drear  gulf  safely  passed, 
O,  may  I  meet  that  gentle  mother, 

In  fields  of  light,  at  last. 


LINES  SUGGESTED  ON  THANKSGIVING  DAY. 

It  is  Thanksgiving  day  to-day  ; 
A  year  again  has  flown  away ; 
This  group  of  sisters  meet  once  more, 
And  still  we  are,  in  numbers,  four. 


436  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  this  how  thankful  we  should  be, 
That  we  Ve  been  spared  this  year  to  see ; 
While  one,  who  met  with  us  last  year, 
Is  gone — alas !  she  is  not  here. 

Ah,  no  !  she  is  not  here  to-day, 
With  smile  so  bright  and  laugh  so  gay; 
For  she,  so  full  of  health  and  life, 
Has  left  this  world  of  toil  and  strife. 

O,  how  we  miss  that  smile  and  voice 
That  used  to  make  our  hearts  rejoice ; 
That  form,  so  full  of  life  and  grace — 
Those  pleasant  eyes^that  mirthful  face. 

Her's  was  a  noble,  generous  mind, 

As  seldom  ever  you  will  find  ; 

Her  work  on  earth  was  quickly  done, 

And  she's  gone,  we  trust,  to  a  better  home. 

Let  's  imitate  those  virtues  rare, 
That  we  admired  in  her  so  fair ; 
And  may  the  tie^that  binds  our  hearts  j 
Grow  stronger,  until  life  departs. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  437 

HENRY  M.  LADD, 

OF  MIDDLEBURY— A  MEMBER  OF  THE  CLASS  OF  72,  MIDDLEBURY  COLLEGE. 


The  following  poem  was  delivered  at  the  Parkerian  Prize  Speaking,  at  the  close 
of  Summer  term  of  1871,  and  a  prize  was  awarded  to  Mr.  L.  for  the  same.  It 
was  written  in  commemoration  of  the  touching  death  and  burial,  at  sea,  of  an 
English  soldier's  daughter,  on  the  voyage  from  Gibraltar  to  England,  in  the 
Summer  of  1867. 

THE  BUKIAL  AT  SEA. 

Where  the  British  lion  crouches 

In  his  strength  and  majesty, 

And  Gibraltar's  rocky  fortress 

Guards  the  entrance  of  the  sea ; 

There  we  anchored  for  the  soldiers 

Homeward  bound  upon  a  furlough. 

Soon  we  saw  their  gleaming  armor, 

And  their  scarlet  uniforms, 

As  adown  the  rocky  fortress 

Came  the  tread  of  tramping  feet. 

Now,  on  board,  we  hail  the  heroes — 

Battered,  scarred  and  time-worn  heroes, 

Who  had  fought  at  Balaklava — 

Fought  and  bled  at  the  Crimea — 

Languished  'neath  the  suns  of  India, 

And  the  withering,  burning  furnace 

Of  the  desert-wind  Sirocco. 

But  to-day  they  're  glad  and  happy ; 

For  the  morrow's  sun  will  find  them 

On  the  ocean,  homeward  sailing ; 

And  the  thoughts  of  home  and  loved  ones 

Waiting  on  the  distant  shore 


438  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Make  the  hour  of  parting  joyous  ; 
Though  the  comrades  of  the  camp-fire, 
And  the  messmates  of  the  barracks, 
Ne'er  may  meet  each  other  more. 
Then  the  Captain  gives  command  : 
"  Heave  the  anchor,  heave  away," 
Quick  is  heard  the  clinking  capstan, 
And  the  grating  of  the  chain, 
As  they  slowly  weigh  the  anchor. 

All  is  hurry  and  confusion  ; 

Friend  seeks  friend  to  bid  good  bye ; 

Hands  are  clasped — the  last  word  spoken, 

Messages  to  loved  ones  given, 

'Mid  the  waving  of  the  'kerchiefs, 

And  the  sobbing  of  the  women, 

While  the  grating  chain  is  clinking, 

And  the  captain  shouts  command, 

Slowly  from  the  harbor  sail  we, 

And  the  boats  that  bear  the  loved  ones 

Fade  upon  our  sight  away. 

There  's  a  form  surpassing  lovely, 
Standing  by  the  quarter-railing, 
Waving  still  her  hand  to  some  one 

O 

In  a  boat  that's  fast  receding. 
Who  is  she  beside  the  railing, 
Standing  there  so  sad  and  lonely  ? 
'T  is  the  brave  lieutenant's  daughter, 
And  the  boat,  so  fast  receding, 
Holds  her  own  devoted  lover, 
He  who  never  more  shall  clasp  her 
To  his  heart  as  oft  of  yore. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  439 

The  rock  of  Gibraltar  is  left  far  away, 

And  the  shadows  of  evening  have  closed  on  the  day, 

>T  is  the  sixth  from  the  starting,  and  naught  can  be  seen, 

But  the  sky  and  the  ocean  of  fathomless  green  ; 

The  soldiers  are  gathered  in  groups  all  around, 

And  naught  can  be  heard  but  the  riotous  sound 

Of  laughter  and  shout;  while  the  jest  and  the  song 

Are  fitfully  borne  from  the  jovial  throng  ; 

For  the  hearts  of  the  soldiers  are  merry  with  wine, 

And  the  song  is  of  England,  and  "  Auld  lang  syne." 

They  speak  not  of  camp  or  the  battle's  commotion ; 

What  care  they  for  carnage,  where  rolls  the  broad  ocean  ? 

'T  is  the  time  for  rejoicing,  not  for  fears — 

'T  is  the  time  for  merriment,  not  for  tears ; 

So  the  bowl  and  the  jest,  the  toast  and  the  song, 

Are  noisily  passed  through  the  jovial  throng : 

They  drink  to  the  health  of  the  loved  and  the  fair 

Who  are  waiting,  at  home,  to  welcome  them  there. 

For  the  hearts  of  the  vet'rans  within  them  are  yearning, 

And  the  hearts  of  the  lovers  within  them  are  burning 

To  clasp  once  again,  as  in  long  days  of  yore, 

The  loved  and  the  cherished  on  Albion's  sh6re. 

But  hark !  the  toast  and  song  are  hushed 
No  more  the  sound  of 'music  swells; 
In  gloomy  groups  of  twos  and  threes 
The  silent  crew  are  gathered  round — 
A  sob,  a  tear  the  story  tells, 
For  yonder  in  that  little  room 
The  soldier's  pride  is  dying  now. 
The  brave  lieutenant  weeps  to  see 
Death  printed  on  his  daughter's  brow. 
Without",  the  storm-wind's  angry  breath 


440  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Shrieks  through  the  cordage  of  the  ship  ; 

The  muttering  thunder  peals  and  rolls, 

And  lurid  lightning  veins  the  sky, 

Amid  the  howling  of  the  storm. 

Hark !  how  the  ship's  bell  tolls  and  tolls, 

As  't  were  some  voice  on  distant  shore 

Lamenting  for  departing  souls. 

Within,  the  gloomy  power,  Death, 

Is  traced  upon  a  peerless  form 

O'er  which  a  mother  bends  and  weeps. 

"  Mother  don't  weep  for  me,"  she  said — 

"  It 's  growing  dark  and  cold ;  but  then 

To-morrow,  ere  the  sun  be  risen, 

My  soul  will  be  beyond  the  skies, 

Freed  from  this  weak  and  trembling  prison. 

Tell  Bert  I  'm  waiting  for  him  there ; 

And,  Father,  at  the  sunset  hour, 

When  lulls  the  storm,  then  bury  me." 

She,  so  young,  so  fair,  was  dead. 

Every  hope  young  love  had  cherished, 

In  that  hour,  with  her,  had  perished. 

The  morning  dawned,  the  clouds  had  fled  away, 
And  o'er  the  ocean  gleamed  the  orb  of  day, 
The  weary  hours  dragged  their  lengths  along, 
And  now  th'  appointed  hour  was  drawing  near. 
The  setting  sun,  in  all  his  splendors  dight, 
Seemed  loth  to  view  the  mournful,  solemn  sight, 
And  hid  behind  a  bank  of  golden  clouds, 
That  shed  a  somber  and  funereal  hue 
Upon  the  heaving  bosom  of  the  deep. 
The  wind  and  wave  together  sobbed  and  moaned 
In  whispered  cadence  of  a  pent  up  grief : 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  441 

Just  as  the  sun  stooped  down  to  kiss  the  wave 
The  ship's  bell  tolled  ! 

Forth  came  the  summoned  crew, 
Bearing  a  form  that  once  was  full  of  life, 
Wrapped  round,  for  shroud,  in  her  own  country's  flag. 
Tread  lightly,  for  that  form  is  beautiful  in  death, 
And  bears  the  signet  seal  of  Heaven's  choice  ! 
Ah  !  could  he  see,  who  held  her  heart  in  life, 
The  stainless  marble  of  that  fair  young  face — 
Those  eyelids  closed  upon  their  dark  blue  orbs — 
The  curls  of  gold  that  shade  that  lovely  brow, 
'T  would  ease  the  blow  that  stuns  his  bleeding  heart. 

The  ship's  bell  tolled !  The  palpitating  heart 
Of  our  proud  steamer  flattered,  then  stood  still. 
The  mourning  friends  in  silence  now  drew  near, 
Bold,  hardy  men,  with  tear  drops  in  their  eyes. 
Such  desolation  reigns  within  the  heart, 
When  that  mysterious  monarch,  Death,  is  nigh  ! 
There  stood  the  stricken  mother  moaning,  sobbing  ; 
A  grief  too  deep  for  common  tears  was  her's, 
And  some  there  were  who  in  that  solemn  hour 
Recalled  the  words  of  love's  last  eloquence. 

The  ship's  bell  tolled  !  and  now  there  rose  a  voice, 

Clear  as  the  star  of  hope,  o'er  angry  seas, 

As  soothing  as  the  balm  of  paradise — 

"  I  am  the  resurrection,  and  the  life." 

All  eyes  were  turned ;  it  was  the  chaplain's  voice 

That  lent  supporting  faith  to  mourning  love. 

It  was  a  solemn,  holy  hour  for  all. 

Here  lay  the  lovely  form  of  beauteous  youth, 

There  sunburnt  soldiers,  weeping,  bared  their  heads. 


442  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Again  the  ship's  bell  tolled  !  the  sun  dipped  low 
Beneath  the  wave  and  lingered,  loth  to  set: — 
There  was  a  plunge !  the  ready  sea  embraced 
And  hid  the  form  we  loved  to  look  upon ; 
The  troubled  waters  calmly  closed  the  gap, 
And  she  was  gone ;  the  sun  that  moment  set. 
The  stars  now  one  by  one  came  shyly  forth, 
And  soon  the  heavens  blazed  with  stellar  light: 
But  where  was  she  we  loved  ?  not  in  the  cold 
Deep  ocean  where  the  dull  sea  monsters  glide  ; 
But  entered  at  the  sapphire  gate  beyond 
Those  radiant  orbs,  whose  light  serene 
Lies  mirrored  on  the  bosom  of  the  deep. 
And  yet,  at  times,  my  fancy  wild  will  stray 
To  that  pale  form  beneath  the  ocean  wave, 
Wrapped  in  the  tangled  seaweed's  clammy  shroud, 
And  laid  within  the  caverns  of  the  deep, 
Where  finny  herds  do  roam,  and  shapeless  forms 
Of  things,  unseen  by  man,  do  hold  their  sway — 
Where  treasures  lost,  of  wealth  and  beauty,  lie 
Amid  the  coral  reefs  and  whitening  bones 
Of  centuries. — Oh  Death  !  thy  form  is  dread 
When  thon  dost  come  alone  ;  but  when  thy  spoils 
Thou  sharest  with  the  ever-grasping  sea, 
Thy  form  is  ghastly  grim  and  terrible  ! 
The  earth  can  tell  us  of  her  dead  ;  but  thou, 
O,  ever  changing  sea  !  art  mute  and  dunib  : 
Oblivion  shrouds  the  secrets  of  thy  breast. 

The  angels  of  God  are  watching  the  deep, 
Where  the  wind  arid  the  wave  lie  together  asleep; 
They  mark  well  the  spot  where  our  loved  one  we  laid. 
They  hallow  the  spot  where  our  tribute  we  paid. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  443 

There  the  music  of  ocean  unceasingly  rolls, 
And  sounds,  like  a  bell,  as  it  mournfully  tolls 
For  the  treasures  that  lie  beneath  the  deep  main, 
And  the  lovers  now  lost  to  the  glad  bridal  train. 
While  the  silvery  moon  keepeth  watch  o'er  the  place 
Where  beauty  lies  rocked  in  the  ocean's  embrace  ; 
There  ever  the  music  of  ocean  shall  swell, 
And  chant  a  sweet  song  where  our  loved  ones  dwell, 
Till  the  trumpet  of  God  shall  arouse  those  that  sleep, 
And  the  ocean  no  longer  her  treasures  can  keep. 


MISS   A.    H.    CAPRON, 

OF   MORRISVILLE. 

CHERISH  THE  LIVING. 

A  pallid,  sorrow-stricken  man 
Stood  bending  o'er  the  grave, 

And  tears  fell  fast  upon  the  bier 
Of  him  he  could  not  save. 

He  raised  his  streaming  eyes  to  God, 

And  cried  to  Him  for  aid ; 
A  sage,  in  passing,  asked  of  him 

Why  such  complaint  was  made. 

"  Because,"  he  answered,  "  when  alive, 
Though  kind  and  true  to  me, 

This  friend  was  scorned,  and  oft  reviled- 
His  worth  I  now  can  see. 


444  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"If  only  God  would  give  him  back, 
I  'd  atone  for  all  the  past, 

And  ne'er,  by  word  or  look  unkind, 
Would  I  a  shadow  cast." 

"  Waste  not  thy  sighs  in  useless  grief," 
The  sage  he  quickly  said ; 

"  Go,  cherish  well  thy  living  friends, 
For  one  day  they  '11  be  dead." 


A  REGRET. 

The  dreams  of  my  youth  are  passing  away, 
As  the  dewdrops  vanish  at  the  coming  of  day. 
And  what  of  the  days  of  my  girlhood  gone  ? 
The  years  of  youth's  smiling,  beautiful  morn? 
These  years  have  been  given  to  me  in  vain ; 
Naught  can  I  show  but  vexation  and  pain. 

What  deeds  of  glory,  what  a  noble  life 
Would  I  ever  choose,  amid  sin  and  strife  ! 
How  I  joyed  to  think  of  the  brilliant  name 
I  would  leave  on  the  pages  of  future  fame  ! 
But  now  ashes  of  dead-sea  apples  alone 
Remain  in  my  grasp,  for  me  to  bemoan. 

Like  glimmering  lights  that  disappear, 
Each  dream  has  left  me — each  vision  dear ; 
Like  a  leaf  on  a  stream  that  will  never  return, 
The  friendships  and  joys  of  childhood  are  gone ; 
Cheated  by  pleasure,  the  chalice  of  life 
Now  brims  onlv  with  care  and  strife. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  445 

H.    M.    TENNEY, 

OF   MORRISVILLE— A    MEMBER   OF   THE    CLASS   OF   '73,   OF   MIDDLEBURY   COLLEGE. 


MEMORIES  OF  A  TRAVELER  UPON  RETURN 
ING  TO  HIS  OLD  HOME. 

Weary  years  have  circled  by  me,  since  I  left  my  early  home, 
Since  I  left  the  scenes  of  childhood,  o'er  the  fields  of  life  to 

roam. 
Time  has  sped  with  solemn  motion,  all  along  the  track  of 

life; 
Drawing  on  its  train  of  action,  through  the  whirling  winds 

of  strife. 
Sorrow's  hand,  with  blighting  pressure,  has  been  laid  upon 

my  brow, 

Leaving  deep  its  sad'ning  traces,  that  remain  there,  even  now. 
I  have  battled  in  the  contest,  surging  mid  the  restless 

throng, 
Felt  the  wounds  of  harsh  injustice,  and  the  stings  of  cruel 

wrong  : 

Felt  my  spirit  stir  within  me,  crying  for  some  nobler  part; 
For  the  complement  of  being— quiet  for  the  aching  heart. 
I  have  wandered,  weary,  restless,  through  the  different 

climes  of  earth ; 
Crossed  the  burning  fields  of  Asia — seen  the  icebergs  of 

the  North; 
Sailed  the   Nile's  slow-moving  waters — drifted   down  the 

castled  Rhine ; 
Climbed  the  steep,  and  rugged  mountain ;  entered  deep  the 

darksome  mine; 

Mingled  with  the  classic  Germans;   wandered  o'er  the  Fath 
erland, 


446  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Felt  the  blighting  curse  of  tyrants,  from  the  Frenchman's 

bloody  hand. 
Waves  of  years  have  swept  upon  me — borne  me  in  their 

circling  foam. 
Thus  through  foreign  lands  and  nations,  from  my  old,  my 

early  home. 

Weary  with  this  life  of  travel,  longing  for  the  life  of  old, 
I  have  turned  my  tired  footsteps  from  the  highways  rough 

and  cold — 
Turned  them  towards  the  olden  homestead,  towards  the 

scenes  of  early  life, 
Where  I  spent  my  opening  manhood,  where  I  entered  first 

the  strife. 

I  am  nearing;  in  the  distance  rise  the  mountains  to  my  view ; 
Mountains  near  the  homestead,  sleeping  in  the  western  blue. 
Many  a  time  I  watched  the  sunbeams  tinge  their  brows 

with  rosy  light, 
Bathe  them  o'er  with  golden  splendor,  at  the  coming  of  the 

night. 
Here  's  the  valley,  there  the  woodland,  where  the  dreamy 

shadows  fly, 
When  the  day's  last  parting  glances   from   the   western 

chambers  die. 
Many  a  time  I  Ve  walked  that  woodland,  deep  within  its 

lonely  shade, 
Heard  the  wild  and  sad'ning  music,  that  the  wind  through 

pine  trees  made ; 
Heard  with  heart  and  mind  so  deeply  that  the  sound  rings 

in  my  ears, 
Sends  its  sad  and  solemn  murmur  down  through  all  the 

moving  years. 
Here  's  the  river  winding  slowly  through  the  valley's  fertile 

plain, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  447 

Moving  calmly  on  its  journey  to  the  distant  roaring  main  : 
Now  the  ripples  chase  each  other,  dancing  to  the  farther 

shore, 

Telling  tales  to  nodding  rushes,  as  they  did  in  days  of  yore. 
There  are  wavelets  of  that  river,  beating  'gainst  my  aching 

heart ; 

Beating  with  a  quivering  motion,  and  they  never  will  de 
part. 
Here  's  the  place — the  olden  homestead.     0  how  quick  the 

memories  come  ! 
0,  how  deep  the  fount  of  feeling  stirs  at  sight  of  my  old 

home  ! 
0,  my  soul  is  filled  with  longing,  and  my  heart  beats  deep 

and  fast, 
As  the  waves  come  surging  o'er  me  from  the  ocean  of  the 

past! 
0,  how  dark  seems  all  the  present !  0,  how  dreary  on  its 

shore ; 

I  am  moving  through  the  shadows  to  the  vast  Forevermore  ! 
But  these  memories  crowding  o'er  me,  stirring  all  my  spirit 

so, 

Bear  me  backward  from  the  present  to  the  distant  long  ago; 
To  the  distant  lovely  Summer  of  my  life's  now  closing  year ; 
To  my  youth  and  early  manhood — all  its  joy,  and  hope, 

and  fear. 

Then  the  days  ran  on  before  me,  beckoning  with  their  love 
ly  hands, 
Decking  me  with  fairy  garlands — binding  me  in  flowery 

bands. 
Then  a  mother's  gentle  warnings  led  me  in  the   path  of 

right — 
Pointed  through  this  earthly  darkness  to  the-  upper  realms 

of  light, 


448  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Then  a  sister  moved  beside  me,  joined  me  in  my  early 
dreams, 

Gazing  with  me  down  the  future,  gleaming  then,  in  golden 
beams. 

Here  we  sported,  here  we  rambled  through  the  rosy  months 
and  years, 

Feeling  then  no  grief  or  sadness — clouded  not  with  gloomy 
fears. . 

Soon  the  days  of  childhood  left  us  in  the  golden  fields  of 
youth, 

Then  we  sought  and  gathered  knowledge — gathered  spark 
ling  gems  of  truth, 

I  in  College,  she  with  teachers  in  the  distant  busy  town, 

Strengthened  mind  and  power  and  feeling — wore  the  earn 
est  scholar's  crown. 

Manhood's  strength  was  then  upon  me,  manhood's  zeal  in 
spired  my  life, 

And  I  moved,  in  stirring  action,  with  the  marching  ranks 
of  strife. 

While  I  moved  among  the  victors,  crowned  with  garlands 
I  had  won  ; 

While  the  future  shone  before  me,  and  sweet  voices  called 
me  on, 

Came  a  summons  from  the  present,  from  my  sister's  trem 
bling  hand, 

Bidding  me  to  hasten  homeward — calling  me  with  sad  com 
mand. 

There  my  mother's  life  was  trembling,  fading  from  the 
mortal  sight, 

Gazing  to  the  heavenly  mansions  through  the  gloom  of 
earthly  night. 

Sweetly,  softly  passed  she  from  us,  moving  to  her  lasting 
rest — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  449 

Joining  there  my  noble  father,  in  the  kingdom  of  the  blest. 

Then  my  sister  grew  still  dearer ;  clung  to  me,  her  only  stay  • 

Begged  me  never  more  to  leave  her,  while  she  walked  this 
earthly  way. 

0,  my  heart  grew  sick  within  me,  and  my  blood  ran  cold 
and  slow, 

As  I  gazed  upon  her  beauty  — saw  the  color  come  and  go ; 

Saw  the  hectic  flush  bright  burning,  on  her  sweet  and  love 
ly  face, 

Felt  that  life  with  her  was  shortening,  as  I  saw  its  crimson 
trace. 

Then  there  came,  from  out  the  city,  schoolmates  to  my  sis 
ter  dear ; 

One  there  was  among  the  number  that  continued  with  us 
here ; 

She,  too,  caught  the  whispered  accents  from  the  angel's 
heavenly  breath, 

That  my  sister  moved  before  us  to  the  lonely  shades  of 
death. 

So  we  watched  her,  caring — doing  all  that  mortal  power 
could  do ; 

Guarded  her  from  every  danger  all  that  long,  long  Sum 
mer  through. 

0,  those  days  are  fixed  in  memory,  pictured  there  so  deep 
and  fast, 

That,  as  long  as  earthly  life  is,  they  will  rise  from  out  the 
past  1 

Then  there  came  a  change  upon  me,  sweetest  change  to 
mortals  given, 

Save  it  be  the  bright  transition  from  this  earthly  up  to 
Heaven. 

Love  struck  on  my  trembling  heart-strings,   waking  all 
their  sleeping  strain, 


450  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Called  sweet  music  out  of  sorrow,  softened  all  my  soul-felt 

pain. 
Love  stirred  all  the  fount  of  being,  struck  on  all  the  keys 

of  life, 
Bore  me  on  its  heavenly  pinions,  far  above  the   common 

strife. 
Friend  and  schoolmate  of  my  sister,  one  from  whom  she 

ne'er  would  part, 

She  had  won  my  admiration,  then  my  earnest,  loving  heart. 
She  was  lovely ;  0,  how  soul- full  were  those  longing,  love-lit 

eyes, 

With  that  far  away  expression,  in  whose  depths  such  pas 
sion  lies. 

She  was  noble — gifted  with  a  reach  and  range  of  thought, 
That  looked  deep  in  all  the  present,  far  below  the  surface 

sought. 

In  her  mingled  all  the  woman's  finer  fancy,  feeling,  love ; 
And  she  showed,  in  every  action,  guiding  spirit  from  above. 
And  I  loved  her,  loved  so  deeply,  that  my  love  will  never 

fade, 
But  will  live  with  all  my  being,  e'en  through  death's  last, 

dreary  shade. 
She,  too,  felt  the  trembling,  quivering  bliss  of  loving  in 

her  heart, 

And  our  spirits  ran  together,  never,  never  more  to  part. 
Then  each  day,  on  angel  pinions,  flew  by  us  to  join  the 

last, 
And  we  lived  in  all  the  present,  knowing  not  how  soon 

't  was  past. 
Then  my  sister  looked  upon  us,  saw  how  deeply  we  were 

blessed  ; 

Wished  us  joy  in  all  the  future,  while  she  longed  for  peace 
ful  rest. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  451 

Peaceful  rest  from  all  the  earthly,  rest  from  all  the  power 

of  pain; 
Peaceful  rest  above  in  Heaven,  free  from  sin's  controlling 

reign. 
She  was  going  from  us  swiftly — moving  towards  the  hidden 

shores, 
Where  the  spirit  drops  its  shackles — on  the  wings  of  angels 

soars. 
One  bright  day  in  early  August,  e'er  the  sunset  tinged  the 

west. 
She  had  called  us  to  her  bedside,  told  us  "  we  must  take 

more  rest ; 
We  had  borne  too  close  confinement,  caring  for  her  every 

need, 
We  should  row  upon  the  river — walk  along  the  fragrant 

mead." 
So  we  kissed  the  patient  sufferer,  leaving  her  in   faithful 

hands, 
Walked  along  the  fragrant  meadow,  to  the  river's  shining 

sands ; 
Moved  upon  the  tranquil  water,  softly  floated    down  the 

stream ; 
All  the  sounds  that  breathed  upon  us  seemed  like  music  of 

a  dream. 
Tinkling  bird-notes  from  the  woodland,  gentle  whispering 

of  the  leaves, 

Floated  softly  o'er  the  water,  on  the  bosom  of  the  breeze. 
Sweetly  o'er  our  spirits  stealing  came  the  magic  of  that  hour, 
And  we  talked  with  eyes  and  language,  influenced  by  its 

quiet  power. 

In  those  moments  fleeting  by  us,  on  the  rosy  wings  of  day, 
Years  we  lived  in  soul  communion,  as  two  spirits  sometimes 

may, 


452  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"  For  true  lives  we   count  by  heart-throbs"  by  the  spirit's 

wakened  power, 
When  long  days  are  lived  in  moments,  and  full  years  in  one 

short  hour. 

When  we  started  down  the  river,  clouds  were  sleeping  in 
the  west; 

Soon  they  wakened  from  their  slumber,  as  the  wind  dis 
turbed  their  rest, 

Thickened  from  the  hidden  chambers,  where  the  storm-god 
makes  their  fold, 

And  along  the  bending  heavens,  in  their  sullen  grandeur 
rolled. 

Careless  as  we  drifted  downward,  'neath  the  woodland's 
cooling  shade, 

We  had  noticed  not  the  heavens,  till  the  light  began  to 
fade, 

And  we  gazed  and  saw  the  columns  marching  upward  o'er 
the  skies, 

Marching  with  their  front  of  blackness,  filling  up  the  broad 
on- high  : 

Then  she  sat  and  held  the  rudder,  while  I  plied  the  bend 
ing  oars, 

And  we  moved,  in  solemn  swiftness,  by  the  woodland  skirt 
ed  shores; 

Still  the  clouds  grew  thicker,  darker — gazing  with  their 
dreadful  frown 

On  the  river,  forest,  mountain ;  on  the  cottage,  hall  and 
town ; 

Gazing  with  their  flashing  darkness,  muttering  in  their 
dreadful  wrath ; 

We  could  feel  the  air  all  trembling  with  their  drifting 
sulph'rous  breath : 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  453 

Then  there  came  an  awful  stillness  o'er  the  jiver,  field  and 
wood ; 

Silence  held  its  breath  and  waited  for  the  coming  of  the 
flood. 

We  had  neared  the  ancient  landing,  and  we  were  approach 
ing  fast, 

When  the  storm  clouds  burst  upon  us,  and  around  us  roared 
the  blast ; 

Then  a  flash  of  vivid  lightning  shot  from  out  the  shudder 
ing  dark, 

Struck  a  pine  that  stood  above  us,  hurled  it,  'cross  our  slen 
der  bark — 

Darkness  covered  all  my  vision,  and  I  saw  and  felt  no  more, 

For  long  days  and  weeks  of  stupor  held  me  in  their  death 
like  power. 

Then  I  waked  with  dreadful  feelings,  stirring  all  remaining 

life 

Into  weary,  soul-felt  mourning,  into  ceaseless,  aching  strife. 
O,  my  soul  was  clothed  in  darkness,  and  my  life  bereft  of 

joy; 

Elements  were  stirred  within  me  that  all  happiness  destroy. 

Two  bright  spirits  in  the  tempest,  on  that  raging,  awful 
night, 

Passed  away  from  all  the  earthly — took  their  upward,  heav 
enly  flight; 

Leaving  me,  with  all  the  mournful,  weary  motion  of  the 
years, 

Leaving  me  a  lonely  trav'ler  through  this  earthly  vale  of 
tears. 

But  the  shadows,  onward  drifting  o'er  my  old,  my  early 
home, 

Tell  me  that  the  day  is  ended,  that  the  night  is  coming  on, 


454  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  I  '11  close  the  book  of  mem'ry,  clasp  it  with  a  trem 
bling  hand, 

Sail,  again,  the  seas  of  action  towards  the  nearing,  Silent 
Land. 


MRS.    CARRIE    E.    GREENSLIT, 

OF  WARREN. 

AUTUMN. 

The  autumn  winds,  with  wailing  notes, 

Are  sighing  through  the  trees ; 
The  willow  leaves  go  floating  by, 

Borne  onward  by  the  breeze ; 
The  swollen  streams  are  rushing  on, 

And  bearing  them  away ; 
Eelentless  time  is  carrying  us 

To  the  great  and  gathering  day. 

We  seek  our  abodes  of  comfort  and  ease, 

As  the  autumn  blasts  sweep  by, 
And  the  blazing" fire  and  cheerful  light, 

For  the  evening  that  draweth  nigh  : 
But  the  night  of  death  is  coming, 

And  are  you  prepared  to  go  ? 
Are  your  treasures  all  in  Heaven, 

Or  are  they  here  below  ? 

Like  the  faded  leaves  of  autumn 

Borne  onward  by  the  breeze, 
So  our  friends  depart  and  leave  us, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  455 

For  we  cannot  stay  disease ; 
But  there's  a  "  Balm  in  Gilead," 

There  is  a  Physician  there, 
And  no  wint'ry  blasts  to  chill  us, 

On  the  new  earth  strangely  fair. 

That  our  lamps  may  be  trimmed  and  burning 

Is  my  earnest  prayer  to-day ; 
That  the  door  be  not  closed  against  us, 

Like  those  that  had  gone  away  : 
But  may  we  be  watching,  praying, 

That  we  may  be  free  from  sin, 
And  then,  at  our  Lord's  appearing, 

Be  ready  to  enter  in. 


THOUGHTS. 

Suggested  on  being  asked,  by  ray  little  boy,  if  I  was  tired. 

Tired  my  darling  ?  yes,  tired  of  sin  ; 

Weary  of  grieving,  the  love  I  would  win, 

Weary  of  heartaches,  of  sighs,  and  of  tears, 

For  such  I  have  had  these  many  long  years. 

Little  thou  knowest,  my  innocent  child, 

Of  the  thorns  that  we  find  in  this  pathway  so  wild. 

Weary  of  standing  by  the  bedside  of  pain, 

Unable  to  raise  them  to  vigor  again ; 

Weary  of  seeing  them  languish  and  die, 

While  dear  friends,  in  sorrow,  are  saying  good-bye 

Pleading,  in  tears,  for  the  last  look  or  kiss ; 

Yes,  my  sweet  child,  I  am  tired  of  this. 


456  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Weary  of  loving  that  which  passes  away  ; 
E'en  the  flowers  that  are  sweetest  are  marked  with  decay; 
Here  friendships  are  false,  and  love  is  untrue — 
As  fair  and  as  fleeting  as  morning's  bright  dew  : 
.Here  kind  words  and  wishes  so  seldom  are  used, 
Although  the  poor  heart  may  be  bleeding  and  bruised. 

But  thanks  be  to  God,  I  can  look  just  ahead, 
To  where  partings  are  over  and  tears  never  shed, 
When  the  enemy,  Death,  will  forever  be  slain, 
And  the  good,  made  immortal,  with  Jesus  shall  reign, 
And  bask  in  the  sunlight  that  comes  from  the  throne, 
With  loud  Hallelujah,  'neath  Heaven's  high  dome. 


OH  LET  US  BE  UP  AND  DOING. 

Oh  !  let  us  be  up  and  doing — 

The  night  is  coming  on — 
To-day  is  the  time  for  labor, 

To-morrow  may  never  come. 
The  careless  are  all  around  us, 

And  sinners  dread  to  die ; 
Oh !  let  us  strive  to  prepare  them 

For  a  beautiful  home  on  high. 

Let  us  tell  them,  in  tenderest  accents, 

Of  a  Saviour's  dying  love ; 
How  He  came  to  suffer  in  anguish, 

O  7 

From  His  beautiful  home  above ; 
And,  uLo  I  am  always  with  you" — 
The  promise  is  sweet  and  true; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  457 

He  has  left  it  for  me,  dear  sinner ; 
He  has  left  the  same  for  you. 

It  was,  indeed,  the  sinner — 

The  sinner  He  came  to  save  ; 
For  you  He  died  on  Calvary, 

And  slept  in  a  lowly  grave. 
Oh  !  do  not  be  thoughtless,  careless — 

It  is  real,  indeed,  and  true ; 
What  can  you  reply,  at  the  judgment, 

When  He  says,  I  have  died  for  you. 

With  shame  your  face  will  crimson ; 

Your  head  will  be  bowed  with  woe ; 
"Depart  from  me,  ye  cursed," 

His  children  shall  never  know. 
Oh  !  try  to  be  one  of  the  number 

That  shall  hear  the  words,  "  Well  done ;" 
Lay  aside  this  world's  enjoyment 

For  the  new  and  beautiful  one. 

There,  are  lakes  of  the  purest  crystal ; 

The  streets  are  all  paved  with  gold ; 
There,  the  flowers  will  bloom  forever, 
.  And  the  half  hath  not  been  told. 
0  Christian,  be  up  and  doing — 

Take  sinners  by  the  hand  : 
Let  our  crowns  be  set  with  jewels, 

As  we  enter  the  goodly  land. 


458  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

LINES 

Addressed  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  P.  Spaulding. 

Another  in  Heaven,  as  the  mother  bent 

O'er  the  corpse  of  the  last  loved  child, 
And  her  stricken  heart,  like  a  wounded  bird, 

Scarce  beat  in-  its  anguish  wild. 
She  had  pillowed  all  three  on  her  loving  breast — 

Could  she  bury  the  last  one  now  ? 
And  scarce  more  white  were  the  ones  at  rest 

Than  the  childless  parent's  brow, 

The  father  gazed  childless  on  his  dead, 

Till  it  seemed  his  soul  would  go 
Forth  through  the  dark  valley  and  shadow  of  death, 

Where  is  known  no  earthly  woe. 
Dark  clouds  had  come  down  o'er  his  earthly  good, 

And  had  settled  around  his  hearth ; 
And  he  saw  fresh  tears  on  every  cheek, 

And  this  was  the  scene  on  earth. 

But  in  Heaven,  bright  Heaven,  that  place  of  rest, 

'.Neath  the  Lamb's  effulgent  rays, 
Two  sweet  little  angels  clothed  in  white 

Were  chanting  Jehovah's  praise. 
When  the  pearly  gates  of  Heaven  swung  back, 

And  they  clasped  in  each  cherub  hand, 
Their  little  earth-brother,  with  a  golden  harp, 

A  loving  and  happy  band. 

Now,  amid  the  flowers  of  Elysian  fields, 
They  can  pluck  the  sweetest  and  best — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  459 

They  can  shout  in  the  gladsome  light  of  day, 

And  sleep  on  a  Saviour's  breast, 
Where  naught  but  immortal  roses  bloom, 

And  their  leaves  cannot  fade  nor  die. 
No  thorns  can  obscure  their  pathway  now, 

No  serpent  is  lurking  nigh. 

All  three  of  them  now  are  Jesus'  larnbs, 

And  jeweled  crowns  they  wear  ; 
With  shining  sceptres  by  their  sides, 

And  conquering  palms  they  bear. 
Oh  parents,  cease  to  weep,  but  let 

These  three  little  angels  be 
A  glorious  light  to  guide  you  on, 

'Neath  the  shadow  of  life's  fair  tree. 


ROBERT    MORRIS  BAILEY. 

OF  CAMBRIDGE. — A  MEMBER  OP  CLASS  OF  '72  OF  MIDDLEBURY  COLLEGE. 

The  following  poem  was  delivered  at  the  Junior  Exhibition,  in  1871. 

A  TRAGICAL  TALE. 

It  is  a  mournful  tale  to  tell 

About  a  Mister  Slow, 
How  he  became  completely  crushed 

Beneath  a  pile  of  woe. 

A  pleasant  sort  of  man  was  he, 
With  whom  time  swiftly  sped ; 

He  had  few  cares  upon  his  mind — 
Few  hairs  upon  his  head. 


460  GEEEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

He  had  obtained  what  all  have  sought, 
But  few  have  ever  found  ; 

For  peace  of  mind  he  had  acquired 
Upon  his  piece  of  ground. 

From  arduous  toil  upon  his  farm 
'  He  ne'er  ,was  known  to  stop  ; 
But  labored  ever,  like  a  hen, 
To  get  a  fuller  crop. 

From  morn  till  night  he  labored  hard, 
From  night  till  morn  he  snored ; 

Above  the  high  beams  of  his  barn 
His  mind  had  never  soared. 

He  always  lived  quite  plainly,  and 
For  dainties  did  not  care ; 

Though  sometimes  he  would  have  &  fowl 
To  modify  his  fare. 

He  was  an  honest  citizen — 

Conservative  in  views — 
He  did  not  take  a  paper,  so 

He  did  not  read  the  news. 

In  fact  he  went  along  in  quite 

An  antiquated  way, 
And  laid  up  cash,  like  an  umbrelle, 

Against  a  rainy  day. 

But  finally,  one  fatal  time, 

A  little  chap  came  down 
To  canvass  for  a  paper,  in 

That  little  country  town. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  461 

And  he  unto  our  farmer  went, 

And  labored  all  the  day 
To  show  him  how  a  paper  would 

Most  profitably  pay. 

Said  he  !  "  Your  good  I  have  at  heart, 

I  really  think  you  can 
Become,  if  not  an  In-di-an, 

At  least  a  well-read  man. 

"  This  paper  well  will  teach  you  how 

The  good  of  life  to  reap ; 
And  as  your  welfare's  dear  to  me. 

I  '11  let  you  have  it  cheap." 

Alas  !  the  -farmer  had  to  yield 

To  these  ingenious  pleas, 
A»d  then  the  chap  went  on  his  way 

For  more  subscription  fees. 

The  next  day,  came  another  chap, 

Who,  full  of  gas  and  vapor, 
At  last  induced  our  farmer  friend 

To  take  another  paper. 

And  from  that  day  upon  his  life 

A  mournful  change  did  creep — 
Between  those  rival  sheets  he  found 

No  more  refreshing  sleep. 

Unto  their  corps  of  editors 

That  change  was  wholly  due  : 
And  so  we  mourn  Slow's  cruel  fate, 

Among  tine  fatal  crew. 


462  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

He  read  the  news  political — 
He  read  religious  matters — 

He  read  the  flings,  and  filth,  and  mud, 
Which  every  paper  spatters  : 

He  learned  how  many  knaves  there  are, 
The  human  race  among  ; 

And  he  himself  was  in  suspense, 
Because  they  were  unhung. 

He  learned  what  liars  all  men  are, 
Who  dwell  beneath  the  sky, 

"  At  the  bottom  of  a  well,"  he  found, 
E'en  "  truth  itself  will  lie." 

He  read  that  all  the  world  was  wrong, 
And  all  the  world  was  right ; 

He  fouud  that  short  is  always  long, 
And  black  is  always  white. 

Now  having  read  opinions,  of 

So  many  different  hues, 
He  thought,  at  last,  he  'd  settle  down, 

And  try  a  spell  of  blues. 

Alas  !  that  reading  papers  should 
Transform  a  man  so  jolly, 

And  so  unsettle  him  he  'd  feel 
A  settled  melancholly. 

At  last,  unto  himself  he  said, 
u  T  Ve  neither  child  nor  wife 

To  give  support,  so  I  '11  no  more 
Support  this  mortal  strife. 


G&EEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  463 

"  Though  honor,  justice,  truth  and  right 

To  find  I  long  have  tried 
In  vain,  on  every  side  I  sue, 

So  I  '11  try  su-i-cide." 

And  so  into  his  house  he  went, 

And  lay  upon  his  bed, 
And  in  his  hand,  he  took  an  axe, 

And  drove  it  in  his  head. 

Next  morning  when  the  news  had  time 

About  the  town  to  go, 
The  coroner's  jury  came  and  sat 

Upon  poor  Mister  Slow. 

First  one  arose  and  said  :  "  I  hope 

This  jury  won't  refuse 
To  call  him  Jiung —  because  his  death 

Was  plainly  through  the  news. 

"  Besides,  he  'd  neither  wife  nor  child, 

So  this  conclusion  's  fair, 
He  met  his  death  for  want  of  breath, 

Because  he  had  no  "heir" 

Another  said — "  The  fatal  cause 

Is  quite  misunderstood : 
I  think  our  friend  here  must  have  thought 

That  he  was  splitting  wood." 

Another  juror  next  maintained, 

Poor  Slow's  last  fatal  act 
Quite  plainly  showed  to  every  one, 

His  head  was  slightly  cracked. 


464  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Another  thought  't  was  poison,  sure, 
That  caused  poor  Slow  to  die, 

"  Because  he  'd  swallowed  papers,  filled 
With  concentrated  lie. 

The  coroner  last  proposed  his  view- 
To  which  all  gave  assent — 

"  Since  he  was  dented  with  an  axe, 
It  was  an  axe-i-dent" 

Now  I  will  end  this  mournful  tale 
Of  one  whose  only  cares, 

From  reading  papers  partly  came, 
And  part  from  splitting  hairs. 

All  men  who  party  papers  read, 
This  sound  advice  will  fit — 

Kemember  Slow,  and  so  avoid  " 
His  fatal  party-split, 


OLIVER   S.    RICE, 

OP   GBANBT. 

NATURE'S  HOUR  OF  PRAISE. 

Evening  now,  with  skilful  finger, 
Silent  weaves  the  gems  of  light, 

While  'mid  clouds  the  sunbeams  linger 
On  the  ebon  brow  of  night. 

Softly  o'er  my  forehead  sweeping, 
Grateful  floats  the  evening  breeze  ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  465 

And,  with  gentle  pressure  creeping, 
Murmurs  through  the  forest  trees. 

And  a  spirit  of  devotion 

Over  all  her  scepter  sways, 
Chaste  is  every  voice  and  motion — 

This  is  nature's  hour  of  praise. 

Hushed  is  every  turbid  feeling, 

And  the  spirit  of  the  hour 
O'er  my  heart  is  softly  stealing, 

With  a  deep,  mysterious  power. 

Over  all  the  shadow  slumbers, 

And  the  fading  light  grows  dim ; 
While  the  waves,  in  gentle  numbers, 

Softly  chant  their  vesper  hymn. 

And  thus  calmly,  without  sorrow, 

Doth  all  nature  sink  to  rest; 
Doubting  not  that  on  the  morrow 

Light  will  come  to  cheer  her  breast. 

Thus  when  death  shall  fling  its  shadow, 

And  the  fearful  night  shall  lower, 
And  my  eye,  in  silence  closing, 

Gazes  on  earth's  light  no  more ; 

May  it,  like  a  kind  emotion, 

Woo  my  spirit  unto  rest, 
Calm  as  evening  o'er  the  ocean, 

When  she  charms  the  waves  to  rest. 


466  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 


MY  PKAYEK. 

O,  Father,  I  have  longed  to  stand 
And  labor  in  some  heathen  land, 
Mid  the  dark  gloom  of  moral  night, 
To  gather  for  Thee  jewels  bright ; 
To  speak  to  those  who  have  not  heard 
The  sound  of  Heaven's  gracious  word ; 
To  tell  them  of  the  ransom  given, 
And  point  the  dying  soul  to  Heaven. 

This,  this  has  been  my  earnest  prayer, 
I  trust  it  was  not  over  fair — 
And  still  I  hope,  and  't  is  my  plea, 
When  death,  at  last,  shall  call  for  me, 
That  I  may  feel  that  I  have  brought 
Some  souls  to  Thee  that  knew  Thee  not. 
0  Father  !  hear  my  earnest  prayer; 
Grant  me  this  priceless  boon  to  share ! 

But  if  Thou  wilt  that  here  I  stay, 
And  labor  for  Thee  while  I  may ; 
Oh !  like  Thy  well  beloved  Son, 
Help  me  to  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done ;" 
And  let  me  feel  that  everywhere 
Thy  servants  have  Thy  watchful  care  ; 
And  though  they  fruitless  look  for  gain, 
The  seed  can  not  be  cast  in  vain. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  467 


"THOU  HAST  COME  AGAIN,  O  SUMMER! 

Thou  hast  come  again,  0  Summer  I 

And  again  I  turn  to  thee 
To  give  thee  heartfelt  welcome, 

0  Summer!  bright  and  free. 
But  with  tears  the  greeting's  spoken, 

And  I  think,  with  bitter  woe, 
Of  a  sod  all  freshly  broken, 

And  a  sorrow  none  may  know. 

Thou  hast  come  again,  0  Summer ! 

But  thy  stay  was  far  too  long : 
As  I  waited  for  thy  flowers, 

And  listened  for  thy  song, 
An  eye  which  loved  thy  coming 

Was  clouded  o'er  with  pain, 
And  now,  to  one  who  watched  for  thee, 

Thy  coming  is  in  vain. 

Thou  hast  come  again,  0  Summer ! 

And  thy  breezes,  light  and  brief, 
Join  with  the  singing  of  the  birds, 

The  music  of  the  leaf. 
And  again  thy  flowers  are  blooming, 

And  soft  thy  grasses  wave, 
Yet  to  me  thy  beauty  speaketh 

But  of  a  new-made  grave. 

Thou  hast  come  again,  O  Summer  I 

And  strange  it  seems  to  me, 
That  thy  long  looked  for  coming, 

So  sad  could  prove  to  be ! 


468  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

That  all  thy  radiant  beauty 
Seems  but  to  mock  our  woe — 

That  over  human  bosoms 

Thy  flowers  can  spring  and  grow. 


MISS  JEAN  WELLS, 

OF  GRANBT. 

MEMORY. 

O,  memory,  weave  thy  golden  chain 
More  closely  round  my  heart ; 

Thy  joys  though  often  linkecl  with  pain, 
True  happiness  impart. 

I  fain  would  bid  thee  tarry  long, 
Midst  childhood's  happy  hours  ; 

'T  was  there  we  sang  life's  sweetest  song, 
And  plucked  its  fairest  flowers. 

No  other  skies  will  seem  as  bright — 

Or  friends  as  kind  and  true ; 
For  all  things  wore  a  softer  light, 

When  life  was  fresh  arid  new. 

The  play-ground  where  we  used  to  meet 

Each  dear  familiar  face, 
When  happy  hearts  made  life  so  sweet, 

Seems  now  a  lonely  place. 

For  many  a  loved  one  of  that  band 
Shall  welcome  us  no  more, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  469 

Till  we  shall  meet  where  hand  clasps  hand, 
Upon  the  other  shore. 

Still,  midst  the  joys  of  riper  years, 

Their  love  we  ne'er  forget ; 
And,  looking  backward  through  our  tears, 

We  see  their  faces  yet. 

And  life  is  made  a  nobler  thing 

For  memories  like  these  ; 
Through  all  the  sorrows  earth  can  bring 

Their  echoes  never  cease. 

They  teach  the  heart  to  look  above 

These  fleeting  joys  below, 
Where  we  shall  dwell  in  perfect  love, 

Which  mortals  never  know. 


ENDURING  RECORDS. 

We  know,  by  every  passing  hour, 
And  by  the  leaves  that  fall, 

That  brief,  indeed,  would  be  our  power, 
If  this  short  life  were  all. 

For,  like  the  flowers  we  pass  away ; 

They  wither  and  are  gone, 
And  thus  our  forms  will  soon  decay ; 

Yet,  still  the  years  move  on. 

The  rose,  in  dying,  sheds  around 
Its  perfume  on  the  air ; 


470  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  thus  a  silent  trace  is  found, 
That  it  hath  once  been  there. 

And  shall  we  act  life's  mission  well, 

With  earnest,  trusting  heart, 
If  nothing  shall  be  left,  to  tell 

Where  we  have  borne  our  part  ? 

We  're  pressing  onward  to  the  shore 
Where  life  and  death  will  meet ; 

The  multitudes  who  went  before 
Are  sleeping  at  our  feet. 

We  walk  above  their  precious  dust 
With  slow  and  solemn  tread-^— 

Thou,  hast,  indeed,  a  sacred  trust,     _ 
0,  City  of  the  dead! 

The  heroes  of  the  ages  past — 

The  noble  and  the  brave, 
Whose  memories  shall  ever  last, 

Though  silent  in  the  grave. 

The  good  they  did  their  fellow-men — 

Their  efforts  for  the  right, 
Are  written,  with  an  angel's  pen, 

In  characters  of  light. 

The  record  of  each  glowing  thought 

And  aspiration  high ; 
The  mighty  deeds  their  hands  have  wrought- 

These  things  can  never  die. 

And  yet,  in  eager  strife  for  Fame, 
Have  countless  numbers  died, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  471 

Who  sought  for  an  immortal  name, 
And  perished  in  their  pride. 

They  live  in  vain  whose  highest  aim 

Is  glory  and  renown  ; 
For  these,  alone,  we  may  not  claim 

An  everlasting  crown. 

Where  moldering  relics  now  repose 

Of  wealth  to  ruin  hurled  ; 
There  sleep  secure  from  mortal  foes — 

The  men  who  ruled  the  world. 

They  sat  in  majesty  and  pride 

On  Rome's  imperial  throne  : 
Yet  now  they  slumber  side  by  side, 

With  those  to  Fame  unknown. 

They  thought  to  reach  the  loftiest  height 

That  man  hath  ever  known  ; 
And  from  that  dizzy  cliff,  to  write 

Their  history  alone. 

But  to  the  lowest  depths  they  fell, 

By  proud  Ambition  led ; 
And  desolation  marks  the  path 

They  walked  with  iron  tread. 

The  proudest  monuments  of  earth 

Are  symbols  of  decay ; 
For  man's  true  excellence  and  worth 

Dwell  not  in  lifeless  clay. 

And  though  on  canvas  we  may  trace, 
With  finest  human  art, 


472  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  speaking  beauty  of  the  face, 
We  cannot  paint  the  heart. 

The  power  to  write,  in  deathless  lines, 

The  records  of  the  soul, 
Man,  with  his  feeble. knowledge,  finds 

Above  his  weak  control. 

The  inward  life  we  cannot  know ; 

And  often  shall  we  find 
That,  where  the  sweetest  blossoms  grow, 

Our  eyes  were  sadly  blind. 

What  can  it  matter,  though  we  sleep — 

Our  earthly  labors  done — 
Where  none  above  our  graves  may  weep, 

If  we  the  crown  have  won  ? 

Where  lies  that  holy  man  of  old, 
Who  stood  on  Pisgah's  height  ? 

For  him  no  muffled  bell  was  tolled — 
No  solemn  burial  rite. 

No  princely  dome  points  out  the  spot 

His  sacred  feet  have  trod; 
His  lonely  grave  man  knoweth  not — 

'T  was  marked  alone  by  God : 

Yet  men  nor  angels  could  not  write 

A  record  half  so  grand; 
Thus  infinite  in  power  and  might, 

It  came  from  God's  own  hand. 

He  needeth  not  our  human  aid, 
His  records  to  suply; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  473 

For  though  all  earthly  things  shall  fade, 
God's  Truth  will  never  die. 


JOHN   J.    HAYNES, 

FORMERLY    OF   GLOVER,   VERMONT — now  OF   CHJCOPEE,   MASS. 


The  following  lines  -were  written  on  the  death  of  Lydia  Sanborn — onlj' child  ol 
Dr.  Beunaih  Sanborn,  late  of  St.  Johnsbury. 

How  sad  is  the  moment  when  loved  ones  depart ; 
How  keen  is  the  anguish  that  pierces  the  heart, 
When  the  youthful  and  gay,  in  precarious  hloom, 
Are  cut  down  in  their  glory,  and  sink  to  the  tomb. 

But  Lydia  has  left  us  our  loss  to  deplore ; 
We  mourn  that  on  earth  we  can  meet  her  no  more ; 
But  Jesus  has  called  her,  we  must  not  complain ; 
Though  deep  be  our  sorrow,  our  loss  is  her  gain. 

No  more  will  her  parents  in  ecstacy  greet 
The  soft  swelling  tones  of  her  seraphine  sweet; 
But  angels  will  listen,  in  raptures  of  love, 
As  she  touches  her  harp  in  the  chorus  above. 

We  shall  meet  her  again,  in  that  era  sublime, 
When  all  of  each  nation,  and  kindred,  and  clime, 
Shall  dwell  in  the  courts  of  the  Father  above, 
Subdued  to  the  Son  by  the  spirit  of  love. 


474  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

MISS   MARY    E.    WARD, 

OF   NORTH    DANVILLE. 

HOPE. 

Were  it  not  for  Hope's  sweet  presence 
Earth  would  be  a  desert  drear, 

But  she  comes  with  grace  and  beauty, 
Gives  a  smile  for  every  tear. 

Not  a  storm-cloud  bursts  in  fury 
O'er  the  unseen  path  of  life, 

But  her  rainbow  hues  are  shining 
Through  the  tempest  and  the  strife. 

When  we  see  the  blossoms  fading, 
With  the  early  frosts  of  Fall, 

And  we  murmur,  "thus  we  're  losing 
All  our  treasures,  all,  yes,  all" — 

Hope  will  come  and  gently  whisper — 
"  As  the  flowers  again  will  bloom, 

So  the  cherished  ones  you  're  weeping, 
Live,  again,  beyond  the  tomb." 

When  we  break  the  ties  that  bind  us 
To  our  homes  and  native  land, 

Then  't  is  well  to  have  beside  us 
Hope,  with  accents  soft  and  bland. 

All  the  visions  that  she  painteth 
To  our  eyes  may  not  be  true ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  475 

But  they  keep  our  hearts  from  breaking — 
Give  us  strength  to  dare  and  do. 

When  earth's  petty  jars  and  discord 

Fill  us  with  a  vague  unrest, 
Then  how  sweet  to  have  her  point  us 

To  the  mansions  of  the  blest. 

O'er  each  scene  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Hope  her  own  sweet  charm  can  throw  ; 

Giving  one  a  deeper  measure — 
Taking  from  the  other's  woe. 

When  we  feel  our  feet  are  slipping 

From  the  yielding  sands  of  time, 
Hope's  last  mission  is  to  point  us 

Where  the  lights  eternal  shine. 

For  this  friend,  on  earth  so  pleasing, 

O'er  the  river  may  not  go ; 
In  the  land  where  all  is  perfect, 

Hope  and  fear  we  may  not  know. 


THE  SOUTH  WIND. 

I  love  the  voice  of  the  South  Wind, 
In  Spring's  sweet,  vernal  hours ; 

For  it  tells  me  pleasant  tales 
Of  coming  birds  and  flowers. 

I  love  the  voice  of  the  South  Wind 
In  Summer,  bright  and  gay; 


476  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

For  it  tells  of  frolic  and  fun, 
Mid  fields  of  new  mown  hay. 

Yes,  and  I  love  the  South  Wind, 
When  Autumn's  pensive  light 

Steals  over  hill  and  valley, 

Like  shades  of  coining  night : 

For  it  tells  of  other  climes, 

Where  Summer  hours  are  long, 

And  Winter  snows  ne'er  hush 
The  warbler's  merry  song. 

And  I  love,  oh  !  more  than  ever, 

In  Winter  the  South  Wind's  breath ; 

For  it  tells  me  life  shall  spring 
Again  from  Nature's  death. 

But  think  not  my  love  can  come 
From  things  like  these  alone ; 

For  a  brother's  cherished  form 

Now  rests  in  the  South  Wind's  home. 

And  ye  know  not  the  joy  I  feel, 
When  it  tells  me,  in  whispers  low, 

That  his  grave  with  grass  is  green, 
And  sweet  flowers  round  it  grow — 

That  sweet  flowei's  round  it  grow, 
Watched  o'er  by  stranger's  care  ; 

And  their  tender,  thoughtful  care 
Has  placed  a  yew  tree  there. 

Yet  all  the  words  of  the  South  Wind, 
Which  it  speaks  to  my  spirit's  ear, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  477 

I  can  no  more  pen  on  paper, 
Than  I  can  paint  a  crystal  tear : 

For  it  brings,  with  mystic  power, 

From  its  southern  home  so  fair, 
The  wild,  sweet  strains  of  birds — 

The  rich  perfume  of  air ; 

Till  I  feel,  as  I  listen  to  it, 

All  the  music  and  the  bloom 
That  blend,  in  southern  beauty, 

Around  my  brother's  tomb. 

And  it  soothes  the  fearful  pain 

That  's  burned  my  brain  these  years; 

As  the  deepest  grief  is  calmed 
By  the  blessed  flow  of  tears. 

Do  you  wonder,  then,  I  love  it — 

The  wind  of  the  south — so  well  ? 
But  I  dare  not  speak  of  it  longer, 

Lest  I  break  the  mystic  spell. 


THE  FOUR  VIEWS. 

I  looked  o'er  the  earth  when  Spring-time's  breath, 

Breathed  out  in  the  vernal  air, 
And  I  said  in  my  heart,  '*  0,  never  again, 

Sweet  earth,  wilt  thou  be  so  fair !" 

I  looked  o'er  the  earth,  when  Summer  was  bright, 
In  the  leafy  bowers  of  June, 


478  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  I  thought  no  more  of  the  beauty  of  buds, 
For  the  wealth  of  the  perfect  bloom. 

I  looked  once  more,  when  Autumn  had  touched 

The  hills  with  her  magic  wand, 
And  I  held  my  breath  at  the  gorgeous  sight 

Of  autumnal  glories  grand. 

Yet  once,  again,  at  morning  I  gazed, 

And  saw  that  in  the  night 
Earth  had  been  crowned  with  diamonds, 

And  clothed  in  angel  white. 

I  placed  a  seal  on  my  parting  lips, 

That  had  been  so  rash  before ; 
For  how  shall  a  feeble  mortal  know 

The  depths  of  the  Maker's  power. 


FERNANDO    C.    HATHAWAY,   A.    M,, 

OF   MORRISVILlE. 

WOMEN'S  EIGHTS. 

On  the  Stygian  banks,  in  the  Hadean  land, 
Wanders  an  ever-restless  band, 
Awaiting  the  boatman  to  carry  them  o'er, 
And  land  them  on  the  opposite  shore. 

The  aged,  the  infirm,  the  strong,  the  weak, 
Contend  in  goblin  strife,  to  seek 
The  consent  of  the  boatman,  o'er  the  waters  dark, 
To  carry  them  first,  in  his  fragile  bark. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  479 

The  ferryman,  Charon,  with  his  magic  boat, 
Ever  on  the  murky  waters  floats, 
And  drives  them  back,  without  any  fears, 
Until  they  have  wandered  their  hundred  years. 

As  he  performed  his  task,  year  after  year, 
He  used  partiality,  't  was  very  clear; 
For  every  female  that  came  to  the  shore, 
Without  hesitation  he  ferried  o'er. 

This  settled  a  question  much  discussed, 
Whether  women  had  any  rights  in  trust ; 
For  a  woman's  right  was  established,  then, 
To  enter  Hades  in  advance  of  the  men. 


HIRAM   T.    PECK, 

FORMERLY   OF   BERLIN,  VT. — HOW  OF  NEW  HAVEN,  CT.,  OFFICE   OF  HOME  INSURANCE  CO. 

NIGHT. 

Night  cometh  on  apace ; 

On  Nature's  breast  the  dews  of  Heaven  descend ; 
The  gems  of  evening  glow  in  fields  of  space, 

And  lights  and  shadows  blend. 
With  all  its  weal  and  woe,  another  day 
Has  left  the  bounds  of  time,  to  come  no  more  for  aye. 

O'er  mountain  tops  that  rise 

Where  the  bright  day-god  cast  his  parting  glance, 
Float  little  clouds,  imbued  with  many -dyes, 

Through  heaven's  blue  expanse ; 


480  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  Queen  of  evening  sheds  her  silvery  light, 
Dispelling  now  the  gloom  that  veils  the  brow  of  night. 

The  aromatic  breeze, 

From  southern  plains,  decked  by  the  vernal  queen, 
Sweeps  gently  by,  and  whispers  through  the  trees 

"  Just  coming  out  in  green" — 
Refreshing  to  the  weary  one  of  toil — 
Cooling  the  fevered  brow,  marked  by  disease  a  spoil. 

Silent  are  greenwood  aisles — 

No  song  of  bird  breaks  on  the  solitude — 

Peace,  gentle  goddess,  looks  on  earth  and  smiles, 
In  her  beatitude; 

To  sinful  man  a  respite  sweet  she  brings, 

And  sheds  a  heavenly  ray  o'er  transitory  things. 

The  Author  of  onr  weal 

Leaves  on  the  earth  the  impress  of  His  love : 
The  charms  that  meet  our  vision  all  reveal 

The  glory  from  above  ; 
And  as  we  gaze,  a  something  from  within 
Dreams  of  the  happy  home  where  naught  is  known  of  sin. 

Glad  season  of  repose ; 

The  simile  of  that  eternal  rest, 
When  to  his  narrow  house  the  pilgrim  goes, 

To  slumber  with  the  blest — 
When  severed  are  the  silken  ties  that  bind 

Its  tenement  of  clay  with  the  immortal  mind. 

Fit  time  to  meditate 

Upon  the  wisdom,  power  and  love  of  God — 
To  read  the  evidence  that  He  is  great 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  481 

Who  holds  the  ruling  rod — 
To  muse  upon  that  parting  season  here, 
When  the  imprisoned  soul  sighs  for  a  higher  sphere. 

Fit  time  to  homage  pay 

In  grateful  prayer  to  the  Omnific  Love, 
That  we  may  follow  in  the  narrow  way 

That  leads  to  life  above  — 

That  when  stern  Death  dissolves  each  vital  cord, 
It  can  he  said,  "  Well  done,  blest  servants  of  the  Lord." 
New  Haven,  May  31,  1867. 


FOR  AN  ALBUM. 

What  is  the  theme  that  most  engages 

The  soul  of  human  kind ; 
The  thought  that  lives  throughout  the  ages- 
That  stamps  with  power  the  poet's  pages — 

Inspiring  every  mind  ? 

'T  is  this :  that  as  our  years  shall  glide 

Into  the  realm  of  mist ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  know,  whate'er  betide, 
That  in  some  hearts,  both  true  and  tried, 

Our  memory  will  exist. 

For  this  Ambition  toileth  on 

To  reach  the  starry  heights  of  fame, 

That  when  the  race  of  life  is  run, 

And  honor's  crown  is  nobly  won, 
May  still  exist  his  name. 


482  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

E'en  thus,  my  friend,  I  fain  would  bring 

To  friendship's  sacred  shrine — 
Poor  though  it  be — some  offering 
To  vivify  the  freshening  spring 
That  waters  mem'ry's  vine. 

Thus  may  the  lines  I  now  indite 

A  souvenir  remain — 
That  as  the  years  shall  take  their  flight, 
Sweet  memory's  vine  may  know  no  blight, 

But  bloom,  and  bloom  again. 
New  Haven,  June,  1867. 


CLARENCE    E.    BLAKE, 

OF    SALISBURY    CT.,   FORMERLY    OP    CORNWALL,   VT. — HOW   A   MEMBER    OP    MIDDLEBTTRY 
COLLEGE,    CLASS    OP   1873. 


STANDING  BY  THE  SEA. 

I  stood  beside  the  ocean,  as  its  billows  lashed  the  shore; 
And  its  heaving,  troubled  bosom  gave  a  deep  and  sullen  roar, 
And  many  a  thought  came  o'er  me,  as  the  spectacle  I  saw, 
And  I  stood  in  raptured  silence,  rilled  with  reverence  and 
awe. 

I  thought  how  many  ages  has  this  mighty  monster  rolled ; 
How  remote  is  its  beginning,  no  historic  pen  has  told. 
It  witnessed  our  creation,  and  to  day  it  is  the  same 
As  when  Adam,  cursed  of  heaven,  from  the  plains  of  Eden 
came. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  433 

The  nations  of  antiquity  have  risen  and  declined; 
Generations  have  existed  that  have  left  no  trace  behind; 
And  time  has  ruined  cities  of  whose  site  there  's  naught  to  tell 
But  the  ocean  of  the  ages  rolls  its  briny  billows  still. 

Thou  'rt  the  thoroughfare  of  nations,  stretching  out  in  wide 

expanse, 

From  the  tropic  sands  of  Cuba  to  the  coast  of  la  belle  France, 
And  surging  from  the  center  to  the  shore  of  every  land, 
From  the  ice  of  arctic  regions  to  the  sunny  coral  strand. 

But  tell  to  me  thy  secrets ;  for  methinks  within  thee  lie 
Precious  treasures  that  are  hidden  far  away  from  human  eye* 
And  thousands  upon  thousands  of  our  fellow-beings  sleep 
And  await  their  final  summons  'neath  thy  bosom,  restless 
deep. 

And  thus,  throughout  the   cycles  that  the  earth  and  man 

remain, 

Will  the  nations  rise  to  glory,  and  their  broken  power,  wane , 
But  the  ocean,  never  changing,  as  in  progress  or  decline, 
Will  roll  its  tidal  billows  to  the  farthest  age  of  time. 


LUCY  E  RICE, 

OF  GRANBT, 

HOPE. 

What  is  your  hope  ?  these  words  to  me 

Awaken  deep  despair; 
That  blessed  world  I  may  not  see, 

May  never  enter  there. 


484  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

I  have  no  hope  to  tread  its  streets, 
Those  streets  of  shining  gold  ; 

I  have  no  hope  its  joys  complete 
I  ever  shall  behold. 

I  have  no  hope !  then  why  not  die  ? 

Why  should  I  longer  live, 
When  I  've  no  hope  beyond  the  sky 

And  earth  no  joy  can  give  ? 

The  fearful  woe  that  follows  death  ! 

Oh  !  can  it  ever  be 
That  I  must  taste  that  endless  death, 

When  Jesus  died  for  me  ? 

This  hope,  so  sweet,  to  me  unknown, 
When  will  it  cheer  my  mind ; 

Must  I  pursue  my  journey  through, 
And  this  dear  hope  not  find  ? 

God,  my  God,  my  prayer  has  heard; 

Oh  !  I  praise  His  holy  name  ; 
For  He  has  sent  the  pardoning  word, 

And  unbound  the  captive's  chain. 

Now  I  love  Him  from  my  heart, 
Praise  and  laud  Him  every  day ; 

From  His  service  would  not  part ; 
Gladly  own  his  sovereign  sway. 

Oh  !  I  hope  to  sing  His  praise 
In  the  holy  courts  above, 

Who,  in  mercy,  crowned  my  days 
With  the  blessing  of  his  love. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  485 

N.    T.    CHURCHILL, 

OF    ELMORE. 

FRIENDSHIP. 
< 

'I  would  not  call  that  one  a  friend, 

Who  others'  sorrows  can  withstand ; 
The  heart  that  beats  for  self,  alone, 
Is  false  as  dross — is  cold  as  stone. 

True  friendship  strives,  by  every  art, 
To  shield  from  harm  the  erring  heart ; 
To  turn  the  shaft  of  sin  away, 
And  darkest  night  make  bright  as  day. 

When  Slander  robes  us  in  disgrace, 
She  tears  the  mask  from  Slander's  face; 
Frowns  Flattery  down,  nor  seeks  to  hide 
From  us  our  faults,  but  kindly  chides. 

'T  is  sweet  to  know  we  have  a  friend 
The  breath  of  foes  can  never  bend ; 
Whose  friendship  is  no  heartless  show, 
Spread  o'er  with  smiles,  with  dregs  below. 

'T  is  sweet  to  see  the  tear-drops  start; 
Then  half  suppressed  when  friends  must  part ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  hear  the  words  half  spoken, 
The  farewell  words,  from  hearts  nigh  broken. 

There  is  no  gem  in  pleasure's  mart, 
Like  the  rich  love  of  a  true  heart ; 


486  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

fThe  soul's  pure  love,  the  heart's  fond  sigh 
Are  things  that  gold  can  never  buy. 


MISS   MARTHA  J.  BRIGGS, 

OF  FAIRHAVEN. 

[  Miss  Briggs  intends  to  publish  a  volume  of  her  poems  soon.] 

WELL  DONE,  VERMONT. 

WRITTEN  NEAR  THE  CLOSE  OF  THE  WAR. 

Well  done,  Vermont !  no  heavier  blows 

Has  armed  rebellion  felt, 
While  putting  forth  its  strength,  than  those 

Thy  patriot  sons  have  dealt. 
They  have  arisen,  with  one  accord, 

In  all  their  power  and  might, 
To  fearlessly  unsheath  the  sword, 

And  for  their  country  fight. 

Well  done,  Vermont,  thy  mountains  boast 

Of  verdure  ever  green  ; 
Like  them  thy  firm  arid  dauntless  host 

Is  in  great  vigor  seen, 
For  as  the  heaven-aspiring  heights 

Their  nobleness  display, 
So  they,  tenacious  of  their  rights, 

Offer  their  lives  to-day. 

Well  done,  Vermont — the  path  that  leads 
To  victory's  fadeless  star 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS  487 

Is  echoing  with  thy  valiant  deeds — 

The  foremost  of  the  war. 
Mid  conflicts  dark  thy  troops  have  shown, 

No  doubts  nor  causeless  fears, 
And  in  our  hearts  we  're  proud  to  own 

Our  gallant  volunteers. 

Well  done  Vermont — above  thy  head 

The  brow  of  promise  hangs  ; 
Unmoved  thou  'st  been,  't  is  truly  said, 

Amid  our  nation's  pangs. 
Though  death  has  sadly  thinned  thy  ranks, 

And  still  each  camp  attends, 
To  all  are  due  the  tearful  thanks 

Of  many  loyal  friends, 

Well  done  Vermont — beneath  thy  feet, 

Thy  treacherous  foes  are  laid, 
For  thou  art  calm,  bold  and  discreet, 

Fearless  and  undismayed. 
We  know  thy  lofty,  brilliant  name, 

In  glowing  letters  traced, 
From  the  immortal  scroll  of  fame, 

Will  never  be  effaced. 

Well  done  Vermont,  thy  motto  's  been, 

And  evermore  will  be, 
The  best  adopted  by  brave  men, 

"  Life,  Union,  Liberty." 
And  thy  triumphant  banner  floats, 

As  o'er  each  State  it  must, 
When  rebel  threats,  and  rebel  notes 

Are  silent  in  the  dust. 


488  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Well  done  Vermont,  although  our  songs 

Thy  merits  gladly  own, 
The  will  to  be,  and  do,  belongs 

Not  to  thyself  alone  : 
For  unto  the  Eternal  Power, 

All-seeing  and  All-wise, 
Fervent  petitions,  hour  by  hour, 

From  incensed  altars  rise. 

God's  goodness  with  great  zeal  displayed, 

Thy  noble  sons  protect ; 
His  hand  in  battle-field  arrayed, 

Their  puny  arms  direct. 
He  strengthens  every  one  that  strives 

To  keep  them  from  all  want, 
The  loving  daughters,  sisters,  wives 

And  mothers  of  Vermont. 

He  will  their  honored  fathers  cheer — 

Grant  them  deserved  renown, 
Their  husbands,  sons  and  brothers  dear 

With  deathless  laurels  crown. 
And  while  the  fleeting  sands  of  time 

Their  circling  courses  run, 
O'er  earth  will  sound  the  words,  sublime 

Well  done,  Vermont,  well  done. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  489 

EDWIN   R.    TOWLE, 

OF   FRANKLIN. 

KATIE. 

Bless  thee,  little  winsome' Katie, 

With  thy  azure  eyes, 
And  thy  rosy-tinted  sunlight, 

That  thy  pale  cheek  dyes. 

'T  is  a  rough  road  thou  'st  to  travel, 

With  thy  weary  feet, 
Ere  that  lone  and  erring  father 

Shall  thy  presence  greet. 

But  a  holy  purpose  nerves  thee, 

And  a  tireless  zeal, 
Till  that  mother's  fond  forgiveness 

Thou  to  him  reveal ! 

Stranger  eyes  look  pitying,  Katie, 

On  thy  fragile  form, 
As  they  see  thee  bowing  meekly, 

To  the  world's  rough  storm. 

Haste  thee,  little  wearied  trav'ler, 

For  thou  'rt  almost  there — 
Will  that  wayward,  erring  father 

Listen  to  thy  prayer  ? 

Yes,  those  speaking  eyes  proclaim  it 
With  bright  tear-drops  laved — 


490  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"  'T  is  a  brand  plucked  from  the  burning- 
For,  thank  God,  he  's  saved !" 


THE  OLD  MAN'S  PLAINT. 

Adown  life's  weary  vale 

I  'm  passing  now ; 
The  frost  of  four-score  years 

Is  on  my  brow. 

The  friends,  that  once  I  knew, 

So  good  and  brave, 
Are  sleeping — Oh  !  so  still — 

Within  the  grave ! 

The  scenes  of  other  days 

Are  past  and  gone, 
And  'mid  earth's  busy  throng 

I  'm  left  alone, 

Yet  peace !  it  is  not  long 

I  '11  wander  here, 
Where  is  no  joy  nor  friend 

Nor  pity  near. 

The  time  that  I  shall  go 

Is  near  at  hand, 
To  join  the  "  gone-before" 

In  Eden-land, 

Where  no  sad  change  e'er  comes 

To  mar  our  bliss ; 
But  all  is  happiness, 

And  joy  and  peace. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  491 


MISS   MAY  A.   MORRILL, 

OF  LINCOLN. 

SUNSET. 

One  of  those  clear,  bright  autumn  days, 

Of  sunny  fair  September ; 
Within  a  purple  sunset's  haze, 

I  love  to  oft  remember. 
We  stood  alone,  my  friend  and  I — 

Ah,  thinks  she  of  it  ever — 
And  watched  along  the  azure  sky, 

The  shadows  slowly  gather. 

A  crimson  tide  of  splendor  rolled 

O'er  clouds  of  fleecy  lightness ; 
While  the  sun  poured  its  rays  of  gold, 

In  all  their  dazzling  brightness  : 
Thoughts  filled  our  hearts  too  great  for  words 

Of  mortals  faint  expressing — 
The  while  the  light  winds  kissed  her  brow, 

In  silent,  solemn  blessing. 

Oh !  what  a  tide  of  splendor  streamed 

On  skies  that  stretched  before  me — 
My  friend  exclaimed,  "  we  gaze  upon 

The  threshold  of  God's  glory. 
Could  we  but  step  within  those  clouds, 

Could  earthly  ties  be  riven, 
Together  burst  the  pearly  bars, 

And  ope  the  door  of  Heaven — 


492  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

"  What  thinkest  thou  we  should  behold, 

When  so  much  light  doth  linger, 
Upon  the  borders  of  a  land 

Touched  by  the  heavenly  finger  ? 
But  now  " — she  paused,  and  in  her  eyes, 

The  tears  were  softly  shining ; 
I  gazed  upon  her  radiant  brow, 

Her  thoughts  almost  divining  : 

"  We  stand  upon  a  rocky  shore, 

Life's  trials  all  before  us, 
Its  doubts  and  fears,  its  griefs  and  tears, 

Are  still  to  gather  o'er  us ; 
Alone  its  ways  our  feet  must  tread," 

(A  gloom,  a  dread  comes  o'er  me,) 
"  Thro'  death's  dark  door  the  soul  must  pass, 

Before  it  reach  the  glory. 

"  Dear  one,  dost  thou  not  understand 

The  glorious  promise  given, 
*  Lo  I  am  with  you  to  the  end,' 

Once  said  the  Lord  of  Heaven. 
And  even  death  no  gloom  shall  bring, 

Lit  by  His  love  and  glory ; 
Remember  Him  who  burst  its  bars, 

Who  has  gone  up  before  thee ; 

"  And  place  in  His  thy  trembling  hand — 
All  earthly  cares  forgetting — 

Safe  shalt  thou  journey  thro'  the  land, 
And  when  life's  sun  is  setting, 

Thy  feet  shall  press  the  golden  shores, 
Earth's  ties  forever  riven  : 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  493 

O'er  death  victorious — ever  more 
Range  the  glad  fields  of  Heaven." 


OUR  MOTHER. 

Our  mother — holiest  earthly  name, 

That  human  lips  e'er  whispered, 
Breathed  by  the  young  or  aged  one, 

Or  little  infant  lisper. 
Oh  !  what  a  joy  thrills  all  the  soul — 

Ne'er  called  forth  by  another — 
As  memory  brings  us  early  years, 

And  whispers  of  our  mother. 

If  young,  and  far  away  from  her, 

We  think  of  that  sad  parting, 
And  how  the  choking  tears  would  come, 

When  first  she  saw  us  starting ; 
How  tenderly  her  word  of  cheer 

Within  the  heart  still  lingers, 
And  every  thing  seems  doubly  dear, 

Made  by  her  loving  fingers. 

And  then  those  letters  that  she  writes, 

Like  angel  visits  coming, 
Commencing  with  dear  boy,  dear  girl, 

So  tenderly  and  loving — 
Telling  us  all  about  our  home, 

And  how  they  miss  us  daily, 
And  speaking  of  her  toil  and  care, 

Bravely,  and  almost  gaily. 


494  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

If  old,  and  many  a  year  has  passed 

Since  she  was  silent  sleeping, 
And  o'er  her  grave  the  cypress  waves, 

And  moss  and  flowers  are  creeping  ; 
Still  ever  freshly  mern'ry  keeps 

The  hours  of  life's  glad  morning  ; 
Her  counsels  all  are  un forgot, 

And  her  last  solemn  warning. 

We  stand,  again,  beside  her  chair, 

Our  tired  head  on  her  shoulder ; 
And  brushing  back  our  tangled  hair, 

She  tells  us  when  we  're  older 
How  much  we  '11  do,  and  what  we  '11  do, 

That  's  good,  and  true,  and  nolle, 
To  help  her  and  to  help  the  world, 

And  save  us  care  and  trouble. 

We  promise,  then,  with  hearts  aglow, 

For  life's  great  duties  yearning, 
That  we  will  love  the  good  and  true, 

From  every  evil  turning — 
Will  care  for  her,  when  she  is  old, 

Oh  !  heart  so  true  and  tender, 
To  think  our  mother  should  grow  old — 

She  's  young,  to  us,  forever. 

We  seek  repose,  and  mother  comes 
To  see  we  're  warm  and  cosy — 

Calls  us  her  darling,  and  then  stoops 
To  kiss  the  lips  so  rosy ; 

And  hears  us  say  our  childhood's  prayers- 
"I  lay  me"— and,  "Our  Father"— 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  495 

And  safe  within  His  care  we  rest, 
Who  gave  to  us  our  mother. 

Oh !  lingering  years,  speed  on,  speed  on — 

We  know  within  Heaven's  portal 
Our  mother  waits  to  greet  us  all, 

With  love  unchanged,  immortal. 
And  when  we  cross  the  river  dark, 

And  meet  with  friend  and  brother, 
We  '11  join  the  song  of  heavenly  love, 

Now  chanted  by  our  mother. 


CHRISTMAS  SONG. 

Joyful  we  hail  thee  again,  Christmas  morning — 
As  wanderers,  and  aliens,  we  come  from  afar, 

And  pray  that  the  light,  o'er  the  shepherds  once  beaming, 
May  guide  us  to  Jesus,  like  Bethlehem's  Star. 

Visit  us  now,  oh  ye  angels  of  glory ! 

Bring  us  glad  tidings  of  joy  once  again ; 
Waiting,  we  listen  to  hear  the  glad  story, 

That  once  brought  such  joy  to  the  lost  sons  of  men. 

What  though  no  angel,  on  bright,  shining  pinions, 
May  bring  us  a  message  from  out  the  far  land, 

As  in  the  borders  of  sin's  dark  dominions, 

Weary,  and  doubting,  and  trembling,  we  stand; 

We  hear  a  loved  voice  from  the  better  land  telling 
Of  the  unbounded  mercy,  the  undying  love 

Of  that  dear  Redeemer,  Who  here  once  was  dwelling — 
Now  gone  to  prepare  us  a  mansion  above. 


496  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Hope  whispers  of  climes  in  their  beauty  exceeding 
Our  wildest  imaginings  of  glory  and  light; 

Where  their  Ruler,  our  King,  is  for  us  interceding, 
And  'round  Him  our  loved  ones,  in  garments  of  white. 

Then  hail,  blessed  day — that  once  saw  his  appearing — 
As  wanderers  and  aliens  we  come  from  afar, 

And  pray  that  the  light,  o'er  the  shepherds  once  beaming, 
May  guide  us  to  Jesus,  like  Bethlehem's  Star. 


MISS   A.   M.   NICHOLS, 


LINES 

To  an  absent   sister  on  the  death  of  her  nephew,  who,  when  only  four  years  old 
saw  his  mother  weeping  and  told  her  not  to  cry,  for  he  was  not  afraid  to  die.    ' 

He  's  gone  !  our  little  one  has  passed  down  death's  dark  tide  ! 

He  was  his  father's  hope  and  joy — his  mother's  love  and 
pride — 

He  's  gone  !  our  loving  hearts  with  grief  are  made  to  over 
flow; 

But  death,  with  his  unerring  aim,  has  laid  its  victim  low — 

In  humbleness  we  '11  kiss  the  hand  that  stilled  his  earthly 
powers, 

And  give  him  up  a  sacrifice,  though  ne'er  was  grief  like 
ours — 

We  made  his  narrow  house  of  clay,  where  the  golden  ap 
ples  fall, 

In  the  shadow  of  the  early  bough,  just  by  the  garden  wall 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  497 

For  thee  I  pressed  the  tiny  hand  that  clasped  the  myrtle 

bough, 

And  kissed,  for  thee,  the  once  warm  cheek,  so  cold  and  pal 
lid  now — 

All  nature  wore  a  smiling  face — high  was  the  midday  sun — 
As  we  brought  the  little  body  forth  of  our  own  beloved  one> 
And  gave  it  back  to  its  mother  earth — the  spirit,  larger 

grown, 
We  knew  had  passed  the  golden  gate  where  sorrow  ne'er 

is  known.  • 

We  saw  them  fill  his  little  grave — a  mound  now  rounded 

high 
Marks  the  spot   where  rests  our  darling  boy,  who  's  not 

afraid  to  die. 

We  know  he  is  angelic  now,  since  earthly  bonds  are  riven ; 
In  endless  joy  his  spirit  lives,  with  th£  ransomed  ones  in 

Heaven. 


WILLARD  H.  PETTES, 


OF  BRATTLEBORO. 


SONG  OF  THE  WIND. 

I  come  over  mountains, 

O'er  valley  and  plain, 
O'er  woodlands  and  fountains — 

The  wild  rolling  main ; 
I  sweep  the  tall  pine, 

And  bend  the  proud  oak, 


498  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

And  the  soft  tender  vine 
Feels  hardly  my  stroke. 

I  come  from  the  North, 

In  the  strength  of  my  pride, 
And  bravely  go  forth 

The  world  roaming  wide ; 
Nor  ceasing  to  ponder 

A  moment  to  know, 
Which  way  I  may  wander, 

Or  where  I  sha.ll  go. 

At  the  South  I  do  revel, 

But  stride  on  my  way; 
In  my  course  I  dishevel 

The?  locks  of  the  gray ; 
Yet  I  linger  not  there, 

Not  even  to  know 
The  age  of  a  sire — 

I  wish  only  to  blow. 

I  trip  from  the  West —  * 

I  ride  from  the  East 
O'er  the  smooth,  gentle  breast 

Of  some  river  in  peace  : 
I  struggle  away 

Till  it  rages  in  foam, 
And  carelessly  play, 

Or  thunder  my  moan. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  499 


DEPARTURE  OF  WINTER. 

Them  art  leaving  us,  Winter, 

Thou  art  hastening  away, 
And  Summer's  soft  glories 

Will  brighten  the  day. 
The  sun  will  shine  gaily 

O'er  forest  and  moor, 
And  birds  and  soft  breezes 

Will  play  round  the  door. 

We  are  glad  thou  art  trailing 

Away  from  the  North, 
In  some  region  to  wander 

Which  may  value  thy  worth  : 
Thou  cam'st  with  thy  cold — 

With  thy  ice  and  thy  snow, 
Many  hearts  thou  hast  frozen — 

Thou  art  welcome  to  go  ! 

Then  adieu  to  thee,  Winter ! 

Thou  hast  given  us  pain ; 
But  soon  from  thy  journey 

Thou  'It  return  once  again : 
Thy  breath  it  shall  wither 

The  bloom  of  the  rose, 
And  sere  each  gay  flower 

In  the  valley  that  grows. 

We  will  greet  thee,  fair  Summer- 

Oh,  blest  be  thy  ray ; 
The  fairest  and  noblest 

That  brightens  life's  day. 


500  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  heart  shall  leap  forward 
With  gladness,  to  cheer 

And  call  thee,  of  all  seasons, 
The  best  in  the  year. 


H.    L.    B.    MOON, 

OF  HOLLAND. 

LITTLE  THINGS. 

The  rain-drop  is  a  little  thing, 
But  when  they  come  en  masse, 

Refreshing  showers  to  earth  they  bring, 
Enlivening  all  the  grass. 

The  sunbeam  is  a  little  thing, 
And  yet  how  great  its  power; 

For  light  and  heat  they  ever  bring, 
And  smile  on  every  flower. 

The  snowflake  is  a  little  thing, 

But,  soon  as  they  unite, 
Their  mantle  round  the  earth  they  fling, 

And  all  the  fields  are  white. 

A  word  of  kindness,  though  it  be 

From  him  of  lowly  birth  ; 
Will  take  a  whole  eternity 

To  prove  its  real  worth. 

The  little  springs,  though  very  small, 
Are  e'en  the  ocean's  source ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  5Q1 

Niag'ra's  mighty  waterfall 
Receives  from  them  its  force. 

"Take  special  care  of  little  things" 

Then  let  our  motto  be ; 
For  they  are  borne  on  angel's  wings 

To  vast  eternity. 


LOVE  OF  COUNTRY. 

I  love  my  native  country, 
With  all  her  beauties  rare ; 

And  better  now  that  Freedom 
Has  placed  her  footsteps  there. 

I  love  her  pleasant  valleys, 
So  beautiful  and  green; 

Her  rills,  her  brooks  and  rivers, 
Which  everywhere  are  seen. 

I  love  her  towering  mountains, 
Her  hillocks  and  her  plains ; 

Her  broad,  extensive  prairies — 
Her  sunshine  and  her  rains. 

I  love  her  institutions — 
Her  colleges  and  schools — 

Her  telegraphs,  and  rail-roads, 
And  Silomaic*  pools. 

I  love  her  pleasant  forests, 
With  foliage  so  fair; 


502  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

Her  many  lovely  flowers 

Which  scent  the  morning  air. 

I  love  her  pretty  songsters, 

Which  cause  the  groves  to  ring 

With  nature's  sweetest  music  ; 
So  lovely  do  they  sing. 

I  love  her  lakes  and  lakelets — 
(I  trust  you  '11  with  me  bear,) 

E'en  every  thing  is  lovely, 
Which  is  afforded  there. 

In  fact,  I  love  my  country, 
The  fairest  of  the  fair ; 

And  better,  still,  since  Freedom 
Has  placed  her  footsteps  there. 


THE  PRAIRIE  FLOWER. 

They  tell  me  there  are  flowers  fair, 
That  grow  on  prairie  land  ; 

That  sweet  and  balmy  is  the  air 
Where  they  're  by  breezes  fanned. 

That  when  their  blossoms  widely  ope, 
And  they  're  in  fullest  bloom, 

No  other  flowers  with  them  can  cope, 
So  rich  is  their  perfume. 

But  fairer  than  the  fairest  flower 
In  nature's  garden  rare, 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  5Q3 

Is  she  who  feels  the  Spirit's  power, 
And  knows  a  Saviour's  care. 

She  has  a  place  of  secret  prayer — 

A  precious  heavenly  bower ; 
Perhaps  her  features  are  not  fair, 

Still  she  's  the  prairie  flower. 


She  wears  her  jewels  in  her 

Excluding  worldly  lust : 
Not  outward  jewels  made  of  gold, 

But  those  which  never  rust. 

Then  fairer  than  the  flowers  that  bloom 

In  nature's  garden  bower, 
And  fill  the  air  with  sweet  perfume, 

Is  she,  the  prairie  flower. 


MISS   IDA   L.   SPRAGUE, 

OF  HANCOCK. 

DESERTED. 

Silent  and  lone — untenanted, 

Save  by  the  phantoms  of  the  past, 
The  crumbling  walls  of  granite 

Frown  defiance  to  the  blast, 
Which,  in  wild  and  vvierd  cadence, 

Moans  through  stately  halls  and  old, 
Like  a  dark,  relentless  spirit 

Doomed  to  roam  through  years  untold. 


504       .  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

There  a  wilderness  of  flowers 

Fling  their  perfumes  on  the  air ; 
But  they  blossom,  all  unheeded, 

In  luxuriance,  wild  and  rare ; 
Russet  vines  of  clambering  ivy 

Wave  with  every  passing  breeze, 
That  softly  creeps  and  shudders 

Through  the  dim  aisles  of  the  trees. 

Close  within  the  gloomy  shadows 

Of  that  mansion,  old  and  gray, 
Stands  a  chapel — slowly,  surely 

Falling  into  grim  decay. 
Through  the  high  arched,  sashless  windows, 

Through  the  widely  open  door 
Plays  the  light,  in  countless  rainbows, 

O'er  the  tesselated  floor. 

Marble  font,  and  statue  gleaming, 

Lie  in  broken  fragments  loose, 
And  the  golden  censers  idly 

Rust,  unkindled,  in  disuse. 
At  the  dust-enshrouded  altar 

Kneels  no  penitent,  to  crave 
Pardon  from  the  blest  Madonna, 

Trusting  in  her  power  to  save. 

Mortal  footsteps  never  enter 

Through  the  portals,  dim  and  wide, 

Of  the  gloomy  manse  and  chapel, 
Standing  closely  side  by  side  : 

For  they  tell  you,  whisp'ring  darkly, 
Of  a  strange,  unearthly  light 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  505 

Gleaming  ever  from  that  mansion, 
Through  the  hush  of  drear  midnight ; 

And  of  voices  echoing  quaintly 

Through  the  quiet  Summer  air — 
Of  uncanny  forms  and  faces 

Mingling  anger  and  despair — 
That  on  all  who  rashly  venture 

Within  its  unhallowed  walls, 
Withering  blight,  or  doom  of  evil, 

Must  inevitably  fall. 

Ages  since,  (so  runs  the  legend,) 

Dwelt  a  maiden,  pure  and  fair, 
Lovliest  flower  of  all  the  wildwood, 

Blooming  in  seclusion  there. 
True  and  good — none  knew  the  gentle, 

Dark  eyed  "ladie"  but  to  love; 
None,  in  all  that  wide  demesne, 

But  would  true  devotion  prove. 

Guarded  by  a  selfish  tyrant, 

Cold  and  proud,  by  passion  swayed, 
Knew  he  naught  of  kindly  pity, 

Or  compassion  for  the  maid. 
Blighted  in  her  youthful  beauty, 

By  a  stern,  unyielding  hate, 
Doomed ! — and  may  just  Heaven  record  it — 

Death  !  her  sad,  untimely  fate. 

Through  the  lapse  of  passing  ages, 

Linking,  dimly,  "  then  and  now," 
Still  exists  the  deadly  evil 

Of  a  never-failing  vow — 


506  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

That  while  wall  of  manse  or  chapel 
Should  exist,  in  solemn  gloom, 

Neither  years  of  good  or  evil 

Could  remove  the  blighting  doom. 


OUR  MAY. 

Happiness  comes  not  with  sunshine, 
Heart's  grief  obscures  the  bright  rays, 

The  clouds  have  no  silvery  lining 
To  brighten  the  sorrowful  days. 

List!  to  the  breeze  whispering  sadly; 

Weep !  she  has  left  us  for  aye; 
Mourn  !  while  the  tear-drops  fall  dimly 

For  our  darling,  our  own  angel  May. 

Stars!  twinkling  brightly  in  ether, 

Veil  thy  sad  faces  to-night ; 
Se'est  thou  not  the  heart's  anguish 

Shrinks  from  thy  radiant  light? 

Bells  !  ring  out  silently — softly, 

With  mellow  cadence  wed, 
And  chant  to  the  air  of  evening 

A  requiem  for  the  dead. 

Lilies  !  oh  fold  thy  bright  petals, 

Murmur  to  violets  a  knell ; 
Tell  them  she  's  left  us  forever — 

Too  fondly  we  loved  her,  and  well. 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  507 

Heart !  cease  thy  wearisome  beating  : 

Knowest  thou  not  she  is  free  ? 
Bow,  then,  in  silent  submission 

To  thy  Heavenly  Father's  decree. 

Eead  in  His—"  Whom  He  loveth 
He  chasteneth" — sorrow  then  quell; 

Silence!  tumultuous  grieving ; 
"  Doeth  He  all  things  well." 

"  Like  as  a  Father  may  pity 

His  children,"  pitieth  He ; 
Stricken  one,  turn  to  Him  only ; 

Surely  He  pitieth  thee. 

Although  He  has  taken  thy  loved  one, 

Leaving  sad  hearts  and  sore ; 
And  she  's  lost  to  earth  forever — 

"  Heaven  has  one  angel  more." 

There  then,  Oh !  then,  thon  shalt  meet  her, 
If  on  earth  thou  wilt  patiently  wait 

Till  thy  weary  feet  cross  life's  threshold, 
And  enter  the  Golden  Gate. 


508  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

MRS.  O.  S.  SPRAGUE, 

OF  HAM COCK. 

A  TKIBUTE  TO  NELLIE. 

TO   MR.  AND  MRS.  FARNSWORTH. 

In  a  garden  of  exotics, 

Each  and  all  surpassing  fair, 

Just  unfolding — none  had  blossom'd — 
Was  a  lily,  pure  and  fair. 

Sunshine,  care  and  early  culture, 
Loving  hands  and  hearts  bestowed  ; 

Fondest  hopes,  in  rainbow  colors, 
O'er  that  fair,  white  lily  glowed. 

One  by  one  the  leaves  unfolded, 
Each  more  beauteous  in  their  hue, 

And  more  perfect  grew  our  lily, 
Shelter'd  from  the  cold  night  dew. 

Yet  a  few  more  days  were  needed 
To  make  perfect  gem  of  beauty ; 

Fragrant  lily,  chaste,  so  rare, 

Fanned  by  earth's  soft  ambient  air. 

Did  the  angels,  bending  o'er  her, 
Lend  their  own  angelic  hue  ? 

Knew  we  that  our  lily's  beauty 
More  akin  to  angels  grew  ? 

One  by  one  the  leaves  were  folded, 
Hands  were  crossed  upon  her  breast ; 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  5Q9 

Sculptured  marble-like,  their  beauty — 
Nellie  lives  in  endless  rest. 

When  our  earthly  flowers  exhaling, 

Pass  away  to  fairer  bowers, 
Angels  guard  the  holy  treasures — 

Fan  to  life  the  drooping  flowers. 

Hopes  and  fears  are  unavailing, 

Prayers  and  tears  cannot  recall ; 
Life  is  like  a  flower  blooming — 

Droops  at  death's  ungenial  call. 

Tiny  buds  and  fair  young  blossoms 

Still  require  your  fostering  care : 
Gently  guard  your  household  treasures, 

Not  all  the  gems  on  earth  so  fair. 

Can  you  mourn  your  flower  transplanted? 

Can  you  mourn  ?  is  hope  all  fled  ? 
Look  ye  upward  !  see  your  lily  bloometh ; 

Nellie  lives,  she  is  not  dead  ! 

Germ  immortal,  earth  expanded  ! 

Drooping  for  thy  native  sky, 
Angels,  pitying,  saw  thy  beauty  waning, 

Bore  her  to  their  home  on  high. 


VERSES. 

Suggested  on  reading  "My  Babj''s  Drawer." 

Thy  babe  hath  gone  to  the  angels, 
And  they  for  thy  darling  will  care ; 


510  GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS. 

The  bud  that  was  exhaled  in  life's  morning 
Will  blossom  in  beauty  most  fair. 

The  air  is  more  genial  in  Heaven, 

For  these  frail,  tiny  plants  of  the  earth; 

And  those  of  the  rarest  beauty, 
Oft  languish  and  fade  from  birth. 

A  fostering  care  is  needed, 

A  culture  we  cannot  give ; 
'Neath  the  shadowy  wings  of  the  Eternal, 

Thy  babe  in  new  beauty  will  live. 

Drooping,  fading,  and  dying, 

The  angels  bore  him  above ; 
The  pitying  Father  saw  him — 

This  beautiful  germ  of  His  love. 

The  Magical  Presence  awoke  him, 
Blooming  with  new  beauty  and  life, 

While  the  shining  crown  on  his  forehead 
Proclaimed  him  an  angel  of  light. 

"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven" — 
The  new-born,  the  helpless  and  young; 

And  highest  mid  the  crown  of  His  jewels 
Are  these  sinless,  these  dear  little  ones. 

No  dimness  mars  the  splendor 

Which  encircles  "  The  Great  White  Throne" 
And  the  baby  choir  attending, 

With  their  golden  harps  are  known. 

As  the  baby  souls  He  ransomed — 
The  chosen  white  lambs  of  His  fold — 


GREEN  MOUNTAIN  POETS.  51 1 

Their  songs  are  the  purest,  the  sweetest, 
That  through  the  broad  archway  roll. 

Their  robes  are  white  and  spotless, 

Dazzling  with  emeralds  bright; 
But  their  wond'rous  baby  beauty, 

Outrivals  these  gems  so  bright. 

The  angels  have  named  your  darling 

Some  sweet  pet  name,  I  know, 
And  oh  !  most  tenderly  they  '11  guard  him 

Through  the  flowery  path  he  goes. 

No  tear  dims  the  eye  of  your  prince, 

No  sorrow  his  young  heart  knows ; 
Then  cease  fond  heart  "  throbbing  "  with  sorrow — 

Thy  Father  hath  willed  it  so. 

Thou,  the  mother  of  an  angel ! 

Exalted  among  woman-kind ; 
That  fair  young  life  immortal, 

Shall  add  new  lustre  to  thine. 

Wond'rous  !  the  mercy  and  goodness, 

Of  Him  who  hath  willed  it  so; 
Great,  oh  woman,  thy  mission 

In  this  beautiful  world  below. 


EKBATA. 


Page  207,  line  14,  read  drank  for  "  drunk." 
"    215,     "     31,     "     have  for  "  has." 
41    251,     "     11,     "     ceaseless  for  "  ceasless." 
"    487,     "       8,     "     bow  for  "brow." 
"    487,     "     16,     "     treacherous  for  "treacherous. 


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